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In the clearing surrounded by lush foliage, the silence is broken and the sleepy huts made of rushes and daub are already being ransacked. There is little anyone can do and it makes no odds whether the families rise fighting, iron daggers in hand, or wake slowly, sleepily, only half-conscious to the screams of their children. One or two of the quickest slip into the darkness, a jumble of long, flaying limbs and flashing eyes, young men abandoning their mothers and sisters, one child with the instincts of a seer, fleeing on instinct alone blindly into the dark jungle and away from the torches and the sparking embers of last night’s fire. A pitcher is knocked over in the panic and douses the rising flames, filling the cool, early morning air with a salty cloud of scorched goat curds that were meant to be breakfast.
It takes only seven minutes to capture almost everyone. The slavers are practised at this. They separate the elderly to one side (hardly worth the trouble to transport even as far as Zanzibar) and beat one old man who shouts so furiously and in such a babble that his own wife cannot fully understand him. There is always one would-be hero. He is usually a grandfather. The slaver known as Kasim consigns him to silence.
The broken body quietens the crowd. The villagers shift uneasily and the raiders turn to the task of sorting through the women. This is the most difficult job for mistakes are easily made with these dusky women in the darkness. Abyssinian slave girls are worth a great deal if they are beautiful. Sultans and emirs have been known to take an ebony slave or two to wive – a rich man’s harim is a place of no borders and should include every colour of skin, after all. White, of course, is the most enticing. Most men have never so much as seen white skin – all those who have agree it is strange and unearthly, the skin of a fearsome devil, a soul bleached to the colour of dry bones and shocking to the core, like a spectre. But still, on a woman, desirable enough.
In this village the women are as dark as bitter coffee and their young bodies are lithe. Kasim’s boyhood friend and business partner, Asaf Ibn Mohammed, eyes the pert titties as if they are liquorice. When he comes to Zena, Ibn Mohammed raises the hem of her winding cloth with the tip of his scimitar and glares at her ripe pudenda. He thinks only of the Marie Theresa dollars that this prize is worth shipped on to Muscat, and how easy she will be to sell. Then, dropping the skirt, he reaches out to check her teeth and nods to his fellow, the one with the ropes.
‘This one,’ he says in Arabic, his tawny eyes cold, the contours of his face caught in the flickering lamplight so it appears he is composed of nothing but long, thin lines. Paler and taller than Kasim, Ibn Mohammed has an elegant air and looks more like a scholar than a man of action. Today nothing has riled him – the raid is going entirely as he expects, so his temper, which often proves deadly, remains in check. ‘Yes, this one will do. Not as skinny as the others and she shows no fear.’
Zena, frozen and so afraid that she is scarcely able to breathe, pretends she cannot understand him. He seems so calm and cold, assured in his right to simply steal her away. Kasim nods silently in agreement though his black eyes sparkle – she can see he is enjoying the process of humiliating the villagers as they are assessed one by one. Something in him feeds off the uneasy atmosphere. The raid isn’t merely a living for this man. In the trade he has found his vocation.
I will run, she thinks. I will run. But her legs do not move. It is probably a blessing – the slavers do not deal kindly when they catch the ones who try to get away. You escape either very quickly or not at all. This is no time for Zena to show her spirit. As the guards pull her out of the line, she stumbles over the corpse of her uncle, the old man she has just watched Kasim murder with his bare hands. Zena does not look at the body. She tries to ignore the outrage that is rising in her belly. Silently, she lets them bind her along with some of the others and then, with the rising sun before them, the slavers drive their spoils, the pick of the village, away from their homes and families forever.
Chapter Two (#ulink_af2dec9c-1ec7-56ff-82d2-eafefbfb1028)
The principal residence of Sir Charles Malcolm, Head of the Bombay Marine, India
The punkawallah has been on duty for over twelve hours and the wafting fan has slowed to a soporific movement that is having little effect on the soupy air.
‘Feeling better, Pottinger?’ Sir Charles enquires as he pours them each a drop of dry, ruby port from the Douro.
‘Oh yes, sir. The fever is gone. Had to be done, I expect,’ the young man assures his superior brightly, as if he had been serving at the wicket on the village cricket team. For new arrivals, a fever is practically mandatory, though by all accounts Pottinger had a particularly fierce bout and is fortunate to have survived.
‘Go on then, have a look,’ Sir Charles motions.
The captain crosses eagerly to the mahogany table and pores over the new charts of the Red Sea that arrived at the dock only a few hours before. The papers represent the first step in the Bombay Marine’s overall mission in the region, which is twofold. First, to find a way to link Europe to India inside a month by cutting out the African leg of the existing route. If that means developing the market for trade with the Arabs so much the better. Second, to ensure that recent British naval losses on the reefs of the tropical Arabian seas are never repeated. In the scramble for global dominance every scrap of advantage to be had over the French is vital and too many ships have gone down of late due to in adequate maps. For the East India Company these tactics have worked well elsewhere and it is gratifying to Sir Charles that more of the map is coloured pink every year and, in particular, that this victory is in no small measure due to the exploits of his men. It is for this reason that he briefs each of his officers personally at the beginning of their tour of duty. ‘Gives me the measure of them,’ he says.
Pottinger sees immediately that though the newly arrived drawings are detailed in places, there remain gaps. ‘When will our chaps complete it?’ he asks.
‘Another year, at least. And that is with both ships splitting the work. It’s hostile territory and the coastline is complex. We’ve sent a small exploratory party inland to the west of the Arabian Peninsula from the ship Palinurus. Information gathering, that kind of thing. It’s a start.’ Malcolm is glad that Pottinger is getting to grips with the issues. ‘The party comprises a lieutenant and a ship’s doctor, Lieutenant Jones and Doctor Jessop. They’ve gone in south of Mecca with a party of local guides and will travel as far as the camp of a Bedouin emir that we have paid for the privilege. The whole area is desert. The rendezvous is at Aden in four weeks.’
‘They sent in a doctor?’
‘An officer like any other.’ Sir Charles waves his hand blithely. Officers of the Bombay Marine are expected to turn their hand to anything. The corps prides itself on the flexibility of its men – a single officer can make a huge difference, in fact, many of the East India Company’s most startling successes have been instigated by a bright spark who has taken the initiative on the Company’s behalf. ‘Apparently, he was keen,’ Sir Charles says.
‘So, if we can secure Egypt,’ Pottinger muses, ‘we will still have to ferry everything across the land at Suez.’ He points at the most northerly port on the Red Sea.
In Sir Charles Malcolm’s experience, these discussions always come back to the same point on the map but it is good the lad has cottoned on so quickly. The thin strip of land in question lies between his territory and that of his brother, Pultney, who is Commander in Chief of the British Navy in the Mediterranean. Between them, the Malcolm brothers rule most of Britannia’s waves and keep an eye on the French for His Majesty. It is acknowledged that Sir Charles has the raw end of the deal. The Gulf is tribal and savage and even if they can oust the French from Egypt, Malcolm is all too aware how difficult it is to move substantial quantities of troops and supplies, to say nothing of trade goods, from one sea to another. There is no obvious place to build a railway to indulge in the relatively new science of steam locomotion. In any case, the land around Suez that is not desert is peppered with saltwater lakes – mixed terrain is, to use Sir Charles’ own parlance, the most tricky of all.
The Malcolm brothers, however, act as a team and by hook or by crook they will fix this problem somehow, so that not only will the sun never set on His Majesty’s empire, but His Majesty’s troops will move as smoothly as possible across it. If Hannibal can cross the Alps, Sir Charles Malcolm will be damned if he can’t get British men and goods across what is essentially a thin land bridge, whether he has to employ elephants to do the job or not.
Malcolm marks the chart carefully to show Pottinger what he’s hoping for.
‘Ooh, the French won’t like that,’ the youngster smiles.
Malcolm makes a sound like a furious camel and a gesture that clearly demonstrates that he couldn’t care less what the French would like. Some of Sir Charles Malcolm’s friends and acquaintances have not yet given up on England winning back her influence in French ports despite an almost four-hundred-year gap since the end of the Hundred Years War. Sir Charles Malcolm is no quitter nor are any of his ilk. He takes another sip of port.
Pottinger puts his finger on the dot that marks Suez. ‘A canal would be the easiest way … But the chart, sir, the chart is everything. We can’t go further without it.’
The boy is sharp. He’ll do.
At this juncture, Sir Charles notices that the punkawallah is lying prone and has dropped the red cord with which he should be operating the fan. The child has fallen fast asleep and, if Sir Charles is not mistaken, is dribbling over the Memsahib’s fancy new carpet.
‘Well, really,’ the Head of the Bombay Marine bellows, ‘no wonder it’s like a bally oven in here, and we are trying to think.’
He launches a pencil across the room. It hits its target admirably, striking the boy squarely on the forehead. The child jerks upright, mortified at his dereliction of duty and starts to babble, apologising frantically in Hindi. Then he recalls that it is an absolute rule that the house staff should remain silent at all times. Sir Charles, now somewhat pink in the cheeks, stops in his fury and laughs at the aghast expression on the boy’s face.
‘Go!’ he motions the child. ‘Away with you! Fetch another punkawallah, for heaven’s sake, or we’ll broil in here. It’s June, for God’s sake.’
The boy bows and disappears instantly as Pottinger pours more port into his glass and passes Sir Charles the decanter. ‘Thank you for showing me, sir,’ he says.
Sir Charles raises his glass. It is unusual for a commanding officer to bother, but Sir Charles always prefers to survey his resources personally. ‘Welcome to the Bombay Marine,’ he says. ‘A toast – to the very good health of His Majesty and, of course, our chaps in the field,’ he says as he reminds himself silently that the chaps in the field are getting there. Slow but sure.
Chapter Three (#ulink_d636e645-47ac-5856-9bfa-1fdd5d6af043)
Rubh Al Khalion the way to the Bedouin encampment
In the desert it is so hot that it comes as a surprise that a human can breathe at all. At first, when he headed into what the Arabs call the Empty Quarter, with the intention of mapping the unknown, Dr Jessop did not expect to survive, but now lethargy has fallen upon him and he has ceased to worry about what the heat may or may not do. It has become clear, at any rate, both that breathing is possible and that there is no measure in moving from the shade of the acacia tree where the small caravan has halted. It is always hot in the desert, but June is one of the worst months. It is simply the way it has worked out.
‘Even in this bloody shade, you could bake a cat,’ he comments, dry mouthed.
He is a scientific man and a surgeon; in all probability he is right. Lieutenant Jones, his blonde hair plastered to his head with sweat, can do little more than gesture in agreement. He does not believe that the loose, Arabic outfit for which he swapped his uniform is any help at all with the heat, but he cannot quite form the words to communicate this or to ask if Jessop is of the same opinion. In any case, he has taken off the kaffiya headdress with its heavy ropes, for he could not bear them – the damn thing is heavier than a top hat and the cloth gets so hot in the sun that it burns the delicate skin at the back of his neck. Now it is after midday, and when the sun goes down they will start moving again. The Arabs have agreed to travel solely at night to accommodate the white men. They would not do so normally, but the infidels are unaccustomed to the conditions and if they die, the men will not be paid.
In the meantime, one of the bearers, a Dhofari, is making coffee. He grinds the beans and adds a fragrant pinch of cardamom to spice it. The Dhofaris carry spice pouches; their very bodies seem to secrete frankincense and their robes smell musky like powdered cumin. They bring a hint of Africa, a spice indeed, to the Arabian Peninsula. Amazingly, these men can work in the heat without breaking a sweat. Even now, the man’s brother is trying to milk one of the camels that Jessop bought in the market at Sur for the trip, but the beast, bare skin and bone, will not comply. It is a serious business. You cannot carry enough food and water in the desert, and what you can carry either spoils quickly or requires moisture to cook it. Camel’s milk is vital. The men have been hungry and thirsty for days and without enough camel’s milk to supplement supplies, the skins of water are running dangerously low. The Dhofari tethers the beast securely with a thick rope, hobbling the animal’s legs in the same fashion they do to stop the camels wandering off when the caravan breaks its journey and the men are sleeping. The beast nonchalantly chews on a sparse plant with tiny leaves growing in a bare patch of sweet grass and euphorbia, while the Dhofari guide disappears into his baggage. Jessop strains to see what he is doing. Quite apart from the prospect of fresh milk, which is enticing enough, these Arab customs are important. He is here to find out what is acceptable, how to trade with these people, how to supply British ships and protect them from attack. It is his job to understand this harsh country and to find out if it is possible for Britain to make a profit here. The doctor is looking forward to returning home to Northumberland and diverting society with his stories of the Ancient Sea and her Savages. He already has the title of his book planned, you see. And this is just the kind of thing, he is sure, that will entertain the chaps at home next winter.
As a vision of Northumberland – a hillside swathed in snow and puddles glassed over with chill sheets of ice – flashes across the doctor’s brain like a cool breeze, he reaches automatically for the coffee that is handed to him. ‘Thank you,’ he says. Shukran.
Jones only manages a nod though quickly the bitter taste revives him. He wishes he had not come to the desert. Aboard the Palinurus there was at least the prospect of a breeze. They will be back at the coast in perhaps ten days and will rendezvous with the ship a fortnight after that. This seems an interminable period to bear the baking, desiccated hellhole through which they are travelling, though the men surely will endure it – they are determined.
The Dhofari squats and sips alongside the white men. ‘Tonight we will have milk, in sh’allah,’ he says.
If Allah wills it.
‘We will reach the Bedu soon?’ Jones checks.
The man bristles. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’
The Bedouin encampment is the halfway mark – as far as they will venture this trip. Though the arrangement had been made for them and a price agreed, the timescale had been, of necessity, fuzzy. However, now they are embarked, the Bedu will be expecting their arrival, for news travels quickly in the desert – far more quickly, the white men are coming to realise, than in London where at least a fellow has a chance of keeping a secret. An adept guide can tell an enormous amount from a few blunt scratches in the sand. These men recognise one camel’s tracks from another, how many are in the party and who is injured or ill. The tribesmen have a keen memory for the precise pattern each camel makes on the shifting landscape – the beast’s hoofmarks and its individual gait. Out on the sands a mere line out of place tells them there is a foreigner riding a camel. While a desiccated turd robs an entire, long-gone caravan of all its secrets. They are like fortune tellers.
Jones is not interested in the native population and remains unimpressed by their tracking skills. The lieutenant has it in mind to find out more about transporting Arabian horses back to Europe – his own private concern rather than that of the Marine. Thoroughbreds are the only civilised international currency the Peninsula has to offer. Now they cannot send slaves home to London, that is, and it looks likely that the Empire will soon close its doors to human traffic besides and there will be no trade westwards either. Jones had hoped for jewels in Arabia. He had daydreamed of pearls as round as muscat grapes and plentiful as if on the vine, of emeralds big enough to fill a handmaiden’s belly button and diamonds bright and copious, like desert stars. His dreams have been quickly shattered. While there are occasional treasures, most of the people on the Peninsula are poor and, like everywhere else in the world, riches are hard to come by. A tenant farmer at home probably owns more in the way of material goods than the average emir. Jones is coming to accept there is little either His Majesty or himself is likely to profit from this expedition. No wonder the whole damn country is full of beggars. Paupers to a man, the Arabs. Jones empties his cup and once more curses his misfortune to be sent here of all places after the high society of Bombay where he hobnobbed with senior officers’ daughters and gambled copiously in the mess. The cellar in India was much finer than he expected and due to the large amount of Jocks in almost every regiment, the whisky, in particular, was excellent. By contrast, Arabia is an unforgiving country and although some of the officers seem almost to enjoy the hardship, Jones is not one of them. He is merely getting on with what he has to and hoping to get away with as much for himself as he can.
‘Good heavens,’ Jessop mumbles under his breath, sitting up slightly and staring at the chap with the camel. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit.’
The Dhofari finishes his coffee and begins to laugh at the wide, blue eyes of the white men as they realise what his brother is doing. He takes a stick of araq from his robe and carefully begins to pick, cleaning his teeth as he studies Jessop and Jones’ facial expressions.
‘Good Lord,’ Jones echoes, his face even pinker than usual. This country takes everything a step too far, he thinks. ‘Is he actually …?’
‘Yes. Yes, old man,’ Jessop nods. The doctor is the son of a gentleman farmer and used to livestock but his voice is still incredulous. ‘I do believe he is sewing up the animal’s arsehole.’
‘She give milk soon. Very soon,’ the Dhofari assures them in a low voice.
This place is completely beyond the pale. Jones shudders. He is thirsty, of course, and hungry too if it comes to that, but he finds himself unsure now if he will be able to drink the camel’s milk after all.
Chapter Four (#ulink_ab29921e-4d15-541a-b6f9-ca46a0f04d61)
Zena has never seen the sea before and it takes her by surprise. The Indian Ocean is a startling blue, and the unrelenting African sunshine plays on its surface so that, for all the world, the water could be studded with diamonds or, perhaps, stars. It is the sound that is most striking though – the movement of the waves as they roll onto the sand is like the voice of a great god. The slavers allow the group to stop a moment and the slaves turn towards what Zena calls in her mind, the Giant Blue. She is so stunned by the majesty of it that she is almost glad they have brought her here and stares rapt at the water as goosebumps rise down her arm at the great booming rush of the waves.
It is undeniably beautiful, though some of the others are afraid and one or two let out a scream. The slavers stare openly at the faces of their cargo. This feels like a ritual – something they know to do and the group spends a moment in silence as, after the initial fear, an air of reverent awe descends upon the villagers. These people worship rainclouds and sunshine, they give offerings to the god of thunder, but the phenomenon before them now is so huge that it is almost beyond comprehension. It is as if they have been brought to the very edge of the world. The slavers have stolen the youngest of each tribe and, apart from Zena, who at seventeen summers is one of the older captives, not one child in the party has even heard of the sea.
I had no idea it was so, so … The words trail in her mind for she cannot decide which ones to use to describe the shimmering vision before her. As she grasps for an adjective, one of the boys breaks away from the group, free from his bonds since that morning when the slavers clearly decided they had broken enough spirits to simply herd the villagers without having to slow the party by keeping them tied. They watch him whooping with joy as he runs, long-limbed, into the water, falling face down on the bounty for they have been dry-mouthed for days. Water has been in short supply since they left the village. The boy realises, too late, that the sea is salt. Two of the slavers trudge wearily into the surf and pull him out. Laughing, they slap him soundly and he folds on the sand so you’d hardly believe he’d bounced so elegantly into the water.
‘It will poison you, you fool.’
Zena is perturbed. The sea is so beautiful it is strange it should be deadly – no one has ever mentioned that before. But then she is learning that in life, away from all she has known, things generally are not what they seem. Not so far.
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed wave the party on. Zena hears Kasim say, ‘I always wonder which one will be the brave child.’
Ibn Mohammed only stares. ‘The foolish child, surely. That boy will be dead before the trip is done.’
The men agree on this as if it is a simple matter of fact, something they have seen many times before. Zena wonders if curiosity in these circumstances is always fatal? Or is it the boy’s propensity for action – the very fact that he tried to help himself that will doom him? She shudders in the sunshine. What on earth are they walking towards? What do these men in dark robes have in mind? Now the ropes are untied, she is not sure what it is that is stopping her from running back into the undergrowth and making for home, where those left behind will surely have buried her uncle, resurrected what was left of the village and, in the sensible way of her family, got on with their lives. She is afraid and yet something here is fascinating – she likes the water. She is enticed by the prospect of seeing the wider world – a place she has already been privileged to hear about but has never visited. Zena glances inland despite herself and then focuses on the movement of her feet. The slavers are watching all the time. They sleep in shifts and can smell dissention, or perhaps courage. You need only pitch in the wrong direction or trip and they will flog you. Kasim’s eyes sparkle and Ibn Mohammed, for the most part, maintains his cold outward appearance. She has never met people so removed from those around them. The whole party is cowed and the Arabs need only give an order for everyone to jump to action. The men’s authority is impressive.
I will stay, she decides, feeling sick in the pit of her belly. It is important to Zena to pretend she has a choice.
Chapter Five (#ulink_b96a98ca-4596-5a91-8ea6-f13956bfe407)
To the east, on the ocean, the atmosphere aboard the Palinurus has become intolerable on more than one count since the departure of Dr Jessop and First Lieutenant Jones from the complement of officers. If only the damn malaria had taken Wellsted instead of any of the others, Captain Haines curses to himself. However much Haines hates losing good men to the fever, even as he is damning his only surviving lieutenant’s good health, he feels a wave of shame. He does not admit that the reason he is so angry is because he wanted to achieve what Wellsted has done and write a memoir of their trip so far. Instead, he blusters that the lieutenant is an upstart who has behaved abominably. Still, the captain has to grudgingly allow that perhaps to wish Wellsted dead is too harsh.
The mortalities were unexpected, of course – if Haines had known that a fever was about to break out, he would never have sent Jessop onto the jabel. Choosing him for the mission, Haines can’t help thinking, was an unfortunate mistake. Had he been aboard, the doctor might have been able to save at least some of the crew from the sickness. But the man was keen and how was Haines to know what was going to happen? Generally, this side of Africa, if a chap survives his first weeks in Bombay, he tends to be fine. The dead men, of course, wherever their souls may be, probably don’t believe that anymore. In only a few days, over half the Palinurus’ officers and a third of the crew have died. However, despite the losses and the weather, the Palinurus is still making progress along the coast, the chart is coming along, the soundings are accurate and the brig has so far not run into a single French vessel. Nonetheless, the captain has a strong sense of duty for his men’s welfare, the stricken cadavers buried at sea weigh on his mind and he blames himself. Still, rather than think on it too deeply, he diverts his inner invective towards his only remaining senior officer.
It was only a few days before the malaria outbreak that the captain found by chance the package that contained Wellsted’s memoir while he was checking the mail going off the vessel. Damn cheek! Now he wishes he had stopped its dispatch, but at the time he felt so wounded at what the lieutenant had written, so terribly shocked at the man’s blatant use of other officers’ experiences and discoveries that he went into some kind of shock and simply parcelled up the damn thing again and sent it on its way, for his overwhelming emotion, at first, was that he wanted rid of it.
The book Haines intended to write about the trip would have used, of course, much the same material, but as captain he considers that his right. Haines envisioned reporting to the Royal Society as the head of the expedition and doling out credit where it was due to his talented officers whose dedication, he had decided on wording it, was a credit to both the expedition and the Bombay Marine. He’d have credited Wellsted, of course. However, the lieutenant’s manuscript has squarely put paid to any such grandiose dreams and Haines wishes he could recall the parcel, which by now will no doubt have cleared the Red Sea and, safe aboard a company ship, be dispatched westwards to London. What rankles the captain most is that Wellsted did not dedicate the tome to him. In an unheard of lapse of etiquette, the lieutenant barely mentioned any of the other men on board, least of all the illustrious Haines. Worst of all, he is entirely unapologetic, which only makes Haines even more furious. When the hell did the man find the time to write a damn book, anyway?
A knock on the cabin door interrupts Haines’ furious train of thought. Three midshipmen hover in the doorway, boys of eleven, twelve and thirteen years of age, dressed in pale breeches and smart, brass-buttoned, navy jackets. Their hair is uniformly the colour of wet sand and they look so alike that they could be brothers, though really they are only brothers in arms. Haines notes to himself that they have been through a great deal, these boys and they are good lads. They have seen, between them, too many cadavers the last few days. As the captain motions them into the room, by far the largest on the ship, the boys seem suddenly taller as if growing into the space. Each of them silently hopes that one day he will be man enough to be called captain.
‘Ah. Dinner. Yes,’ says Haines.
Jardine, the captain’s portly, Scottish steward follows the deputation, closing the door behind him with an unexpectedly deft flick of the ankle. The man’s face is like a craggy cliff of pink chalk, fallen away slightly on one side, as if the steward’s very person is as old as time and disappearing gradually into the sea. There was, during the time of the fever, no expectation that Jardine might succumb; he is an indestructible kind of fellow. Now in one hand he holds a decanter of brandy and in the other a flacon of red wine, which he lays on the table.
‘What is it tonight, Jardine?’
‘Mutton, sir. Stewed,’ he replies, lopsided in the mouth.
They last resupplied far south of Makkah and bought a flock of small, dark-coated sheep from an unwilling tribe of Wahabi for a small fortune. Supplies further along the coast have proved limited. Many of the Musselmen refuse to trade with the English at all although some tribes are easier than others. This coast – to the east of the Red Sea – is proving particularly troublesome. Islam, in this area, appears to be taken to extremes and is most unforgiving in its tenets – quite a contrast to the more laissez-faire Ibadis who populate the other side of the Peninsula and to the south. In this neck of the woods the mere sight of white skin often provokes an apoplexy of virulent hatred. The landing parties have been spat upon, screamed at and chased off at knife point by wild-eyed, pale-robed assailants spewing a torrent of abuse, which upon later translation, turned out to mean ‘Eat pig, pig-eaters!’ and the like. At one port a merchant even pissed into a sack of flour rather than sell it to the infidel ship to be eaten by unbelievers. ‘Die empty-bellied, kafir,’ the man sneered. No amount of money or attempt at goodwill seems to make the long-bearded zealots change their minds. The holy cities are closed to foreigners so it has been mutton for some weeks now, supplemented with thin dates, ship’s tack, sheep’s milk, coffee, a small amount of cornbread and any decent-sized fish the younger members of the crew can scoop out of the water.
‘Well, lads, you did not join up, I trust, in the hope of feasting at the expense of the Bombay Marine?’
Haines pours his officers a glass each.
‘A toast, shall we?’ he says with largesse.
That very morning the last of the dead was buried at sea – an Irish seadog from Belfast called Johnny Mullins, who fought the malaria like a trouper but lost in the end. All members of the crew who caught the sickness are either dead or cured now. The worst has passed and Haines holds up his glass.
‘We survivors, gentlemen. May our poor fellows rest in peace.’
The boys shift uneasily. Protocol demands that they do not start the proceedings of dinner without all the invited officers present. They may be young, but they know the form.
‘Come now,’ says the captain testily, imposing his authority.
Slowly, the boys concur. Uneasily, they pick up their glasses and down the wine.
‘Jardine!’ the captain calls for service.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mutton stew is it?’
‘Yes, sir. With seaweeds. But …’
‘If Lieutenant Wellsted cannot be troubled to join us on time, then I see no reason why we should wait on his pleasure.’
Haines turns back to the little group.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘The soundings you took today, young Ormsby. I checked over your work and I was most impressed. Heaving the lead all afternoon like that and collating your measurements with excellent accuracy – why, you are a regular Maudsley man, are you not? We’ll have you in charge of this survey yet!’
Ormsby’s grin could illuminate London Bridge. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says as Jardine shuffles in with a pewter casserole dish, steam emanating from the open lid, and starts to serve the officers their dinner.
Chapter Six (#ulink_ad16596a-8638-5daa-8edf-b6bb6be85b58)
Jessop and Jones are coming to realise that the Dhofaris have a very different sense of time. Or, as the lieutenant puts it, ‘You cannot trust a word the buggers say.’ It has been another day or two to the emir’s camp for almost a week now, and no manner of earnest enquiry elicits any other response from the men, than occasionally, a wry shrug of the shoulders. Jessop restricts Jones from becoming too insistent.
‘We are not in such a rush, old man,’ he points out.
It is long enough till the men’s rendezvous with the Palinurus that they have time to lag behind their schedule.
Apart from their inability to keep to a timetable, Jessop finds the Dhofaris very pleasant. They are endlessly patient with his attempts to map the route, which is proving extremely difficult. For a start, for most of the day, the brass instruments the doctor brought for the job are far too hot to touch.
‘Sort of thing you don’t realise in Southampton,’ he smiles.
Jones does not find this kind of thing amusing. The tasks are as much his as the doctor’s to complete but the lieutenant constantly gives up, the doctor considers, a mite too easily for an English officer who is charged with what is, after all, the fairly routine, if inconvenient, mission of checking the lie of the land. The Dhofaris bind their hands in cloth and try their best to assist.
At night, by the panorama of low-slung stars with which the region is blessed, the instruments provide better results. The sand dunes, however, are tricky to render. The wind will move them long before the next British mission comes inland, making that element of the map all but useless. There is no landscape on earth as changeable as the desert, Jessop muses. While the Northumberland hills where he grew up have remained largely the same for thousands of years, the features of the desert landscape might last no more than a few weeks. The doctor does not give up, though. He merely notates all his thoughts and as much detail as he can manage, down to the fact that the thin goats the Dhofaris have brought have shorter carcasses than their European cousins and are surprisingly tasty. A chap never knows what might prove a useful piece of information – which shrub will turn out to hold a priceless secret that can be used in British industry, or the understanding of which local custom will endear a later British delegation to an emir or a caliph and secure a lucrative trade agreement. Dr Jessop, unlike Lieutenant Jones, is focussed clearly on what the East India Company requires of him. He notes each twenty-four hours the mileage they have managed to cover and estimates that a thirsty camel can drink twenty gallons in less than three minutes.
As they make camp in the middle of the morning and settle down to sleep for the hottest part of the day under a hastily erected tent that provides shade probably only a degree or two cooler than the baking sand adjacent to it, the doctor dresses a burn on the older Dhofari’s hand. The wound was acquired in the service of the British Empire, after all. He daubs lavender ointment across the skin. Kindness, the doctor always thinks, is terribly important to a patient. When he first qualified, many of his patients healed all the quicker, he’s sure, for his attention, rather than simply his medical knowledge.
‘I don’t know why you bother, old chap,’ Jones mumbles sleepily to his companion.
‘I have the ointment with me, it costs me nothing,’ the doctor points out.
