Hot Winds From Bombay (25 page)

And they were—the worst they’d seen. For a time, it seemed to Persia that she would never see the sun, dry land, or Zack again. She remained below in her cabin in eternal darkness, not daring to light a lamp for fear of starting a fire. And Zack had insisted that the deadlights be fastened in place over her windows for the duration of the storm. These heavy, wooden, shutter-type affairs blocked out every ray of light but kept the glass from shattering and possibly causing serious injury.

However, she hardly saw what further injuries she could suffer. The ship alternately wallowed in the deep troughs between waves and was then tossed skyward by the violent, crashing seas. One moment Persia was up and the next moment she was down. She had bruises all over her body, a lump on her forehead where she’d been thrown against a wildly swinging cupboard door, and a fresh gash in her arm from a broken lamp that was paining her considerably.

She lay on her back in the very center of the bunk, gripping the mattress with both hands. But still she was tossed and buffeted. Through it all came the scream of the howling wind, the groan of the ship’s straining timbers, and the constant roar of the sea. And from below, she could hear the grinding sound of the ice shifting.

She was so tired. If only she could sleep. Then she could dream herself out of this nightmare. Still holding on tightly, she closed her eyes.

“Man overboard!”

She sat up in bed, fear turning her blood to ice. At first she thought she’d dreamed it. But the thudding of boots racing topside told her it was a terrible reality. No call was more dreaded at sea, and in a storm like this there would be little hope of saving him. Still, every man in both watches would turn out to lend a hand.

Forgetting Zack’s orders to stay in her cabin, Persia slipped into the oilskin foul-weather coat the sailmaker had fashioned for her and fought her way to the door. It was a matter of one step forward and two steps back as the ship lurched and shuddered. Finally, she made her way into the passage and up the ladder.

Rain and seawater poured down the hatch to soak her through. The whole world seemed a dirty, wet shade of purplish gray. And the ship was as dark as a cave. Was it day or night? She couldn’t remember, and she certainly couldn’t tell from looking.

She watched hazy figures moving about deck, clinging to lifelines that had been rigged from forecastle head to the break of the poop, along both sides of the ship. Shredded sails flapped above, looking like grave shrouds of the damned. She swiped at the water clouding her vision. She wanted desperately to catch sight of Zack, to know that he was all right. But she could make out no faces, only dark shadows moving about the deck. Her heart sank.

What if Zack was the man who had been swept over the side? How could she live without him? Then darker thoughts began to crowd into her mind and weigh heavily on her heart. What if this was her punishment for having loved him when, by rights, she belonged to another?

She stumbled back down the ladder, slipping twice and falling to her knees in the passageway that was now awash with saltwater. Crawling on all fours, she made it to her cabin door. She was exhausted, crying, hurting all over. Summoning more strength than she thought she had left, she shouldered the door open. Just then a mighty wave hit the ship broadside. The deck tilted beneath her, rolling her as if she were an empty barrel until she slammed painfully into the side of her bunk. She lay there, stunned, for a few moments, waiting for the ship to right itself. Then slowly, she climbed back into bed and gave herself up to racking sobs.

Minutes, hours, it could even have been
days
later to Persia’s mind, a hand gripped her bruised shoulder.

“Are you all right?” demanded a familiar, husky voice.

“Zack?” she cried. “Oh, Zack, I thought you were dead!”

She threw herself into his arms, but his touch was cold. His arms seemed frozen at his sides.

“I saw you when you came up the ladder, Persia. That was a damn fool thing to do. I told you to stay put and I meant it!”

She drew back from him, feeling like a chastised child. “I heard the cry and all the men running. I only wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Well, I’m fine, as you can see. But I certainly won’t be if you get yourself swept overboard and I have to go in after you.”

Suddenly, she returned to her senses. “Zack, who was it?”

“Mister Barry,” he answered in an icy voice. “He went up in the rigging to batten down some sail. A monster wave hit, and…”

“And?” Her voice was small. She already knew the answer.

“He’s gone.”

“Oh, Zack, I’m sorry.”

“Not nearly as sorry as you’ll be the next time I see you coming on deck. In fact, I won’t risk it. Lie down!”

Grabbing up a length of rope that had slithered in from the sea outside her door, Zack quickly lashed her to the bunk.

“There! That should hold you,” he said. “It’s not over yet, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Furious, she screamed his name and a few foul epithets after him, but he paid her no heed. She lay, trussed like a fish in a net, seething and straining to escape. But Zack knew his craft well. She would not be free until he came back to release her.

Totally exhaused, she closed her eyes. Although the ship was still rolling, she was no longer being tossed about from pillar to post. She relaxed within her bonds and let sleep carry her away.

Sometime later, deep in the night, near the end of the second dog watch, she awoke to find the lamps lit and Zack standing over her. The storm seemed to have passed. He fingered the rope and grinned.

“Oh, could I amuse myself with you in this position!”

He tugged at one of her bare feet, then let his hand slide up her leg. Leaning down to kiss her, he brought his hand to her breast to play there a bit.

She squirmed against her bonds, but they held her tight. She was totally at his mercy. The thought both repelled and thrilled her.

Ever so slowly, his hand drifted down her body—pinching here, teasing there. Then his fingers moved lower, to a more tender region, to concentrate on more serious fondling.

Persia, inflamed, pulled her mouth from his and demanded, “Zack, untie me! This minute!”

She was oddly disappointed when he did as ordered.

The
Madagascar
had literally been thrown back across the equator by the fury of the storm. Luckily, their cargo had not thawed enough to shift dangerously. Still, there was a great deal of damage and, of course, one man lost. But miraculously, the ship was still seaworthy and still on course. With the right winds, they would see Bombay in only weeks.

But their luck did not hold. After the storm came the calm. The
Madagascar
lolled, motionless, in the region about the equator called the doldrums, caught in the void between the two trade winds. They were one hundred and fourteen days out. They had made good time. But now it looked as if they might be trapped in this same airless spot of ocean for days or even weeks.

The ice now became their main concern. The warm seas caused rapid melting. All day and all night, the rasp and cough of the hand-operated pumps on deck disturbed the hot, airless silence. The ship’s hold had to be kept as dry as possible. Otherwise, the melting process would only speed itself up. A fortune could be lost in a span of days.

Zack had been busier than usual since his first mate was taken from him by the sea. Stoner was a fair second mate, but the man would never be officer material. So it’ was up to the master of the ship to fill both positions. Most difficult of all was keeping the sailors of the starboard watch busy at all times. He had them polish all the brass from ship’s bell to binnacle and then start over again. They swabbed, they varnished, they painted, they scraped. Down on their hands and knees in the baking, tropical sun, they holystoned the decks until they gleamed.

But as temperatures soared, drinking water ran short, and still there was not a breath of air, tempers erupted. The sound of the never-ceasing pumps, sending useless water into the sea, only made matters worse. By the end of four days, two of the sailors were below, sweating it out in chains for having come to blows over a coconut one of them had fished out of the sea. Everyone else, including Persia, lay up on deck, sweltering and blistering through the long, hot days.

The sailmaker had rigged a tentlike affair to protect Persia from the sun’s fiery rays. She appreciated the thought and it was a help, but the covering kept any breath of air from reaching her. There was nothing for it but to come out every hour or so and stroll the deck to breathe.

During one of these interludes, Zack spotted her. His eyes narrowed. He had seen the way the sailors were looking at her. Normally they wouldn’t have posed a threat. But these circumstances were anything but normal. He had seen women attacked on board other ships when the sun had baked the senses from a man’s brain. He came up behind her and took her elbow, steering her back toward her shelter.

“Do you want to get sunstroke?” he demanded.

“No. I just came out for a moment. I thought there might be a breeze.”

“There’s no breeze, my dariing. Just a dozen or so womenstarved sailors, half-crazed from thirst and boredom. Do us all a favor; stay out of sight.”

“But Zack…”

“No buts! That is an order, madam!”

Sulkily, she crept back into her shelter. He might at least have joined her for a time. What was wrong with him these days? He was grumpy, harsh, even impatient with her. And they hadn’t made love… since when? Not for a week, at least. Surely he couldn’t have tired of her already! The thought nagged at her. She dismissed it. It was too hot to worry over things she could do nothing about.

She gazed out across the deck. It shimmered in the heat. She could see a group of about ten sailors huddled together a few yards away. They seemed to be in deep discussion. And they kept glancing toward her. She was curious, but the heat did not lend itself to long concentration on any one thing.

Using a seagull-feather fan one of the men had made for her, she stirred her own breeze. But it was a hot one. She opened the neck of her gown and fanned determinedly, shading her eyes with her other hand to scan the skies though the tent opening for any sign of a cloud. Rain would be such a blessing!

“Ma’am?” The voice just outside her little shelter made her jump. “Miz Blackwell, ma’am, could I speak to you a minute?”

She gave the young man a smile. He wasn’t bad-looking—tall, tough, sandy-bearded. She’d seen him many times but couldn’t recall his name just now.

“Yes?” she answered. “What is it?”

He edged closer under the awning with her. He was grinning and seemed a bit nervous.

“Well, ma’am, you see, me and the boys’ve been talking it over. It bein’ so fearful hot an’ all, we figured you could do with somethin’ to drink.”

“That’s kind of you, but the water’s rationed. I wouldn’t want to take any more than my share. We don’t want to have to melt down our precious cargo in order to survive.”

He laughed. “Aw, we wouldn’t steal no water, ma’am. The cap’n would skin our tails. Now, I got something better. A little present from the boys.” He pulled a flask out of his pocket and shoved it toward her. “Here!”

A bit of the amber liquid sloshed from the neck of the bottle, staining Persia’s white cotton skirt. She stared at the sailor, unsmiling.

“Where did you get this? You know spirits aren’t allowed among the crew! Why, the captain will—”

“The captain will
what
?” Zack’s voice boomed.

The sailor turned pale and might have scurried away if Zack’s well-placed boot hadn’t sent him sprawling first.

“Stoner, arrest this man,” the captain ordered. “Take him below and chain him. He’ll be brought before the mast at noon tomorrow.”

A stricken wail followed the sailor down the ladder.

“Zack, you can’t do that. He didn’t mean any harm. He only offered me something to drink.”

“Yes, I can tell. You
reek
of it! And what did you offer him in exchange?”

“Nothing! Not a thing! How dare you?”

“I’m the captain of this ship, and it’s up to me to keep order. I won’t have you or anyone else disrupting things, Persia.”

“I never!” she protested.

“Oh? And just what do you call those little promenades on deck you’ve been indulging in? The men’s scorched eyeballs nearly pop out of their sockets when you go prancing around out there with your dress open to your navel! Persia, I don’t know what’s gotten into you!”

“Nor I you!” she replied angrily. Then she hurried below to the oven that was her cabin. She would stay there until Zack apologized.

But she had sweated it out only about ten minutes when she heard the familiar sound of wind filling sail and felt the ship shudder to life around her. She laughed out loud with pure relief and hurried up on deck.

The ship was alive again, and so was the crew.

“Stoner, release the prisoners,” she heard the captain order. “We need all hands to get under way. And pass out an extra ration of water. We’ll make Bombay with plenty to spare!”

That night, when Zack came off watch, he was a changed man. Persia didn’t need an apology—he gave her so much more! He made her wish that this voyage could go on forever. She never wanted to be any farther away from Zack than she was right now. They were everything to each other. The rest of the world had ceased to exist. She loved and was loved in return. That was her total, eternal reality.

Persia leaned over the railing, thinking that she had never seen as lovely a sight as Bombay harbor. Even the caws and shrieks of the black clouds of crows circling over the distant city added their own exotic touch to the scene.

“March 28, 1847,” she said, smiling. “A new day, a new world!”

Her eyes swept over the lush green outline of Malabar Hill, along the western shore of Bombay Island. Directly ahead of them lay Prongs Reef and the floating marker and light at the harbor’s entrance.

Suddenly, the boom of a cannon marred the quiet of the early, golden morning. She jumped, then relaxed as she realized the
Madagascar
had been spotted from the lighthouse and its arrival duly noted. She spied the harbor pilot’s boat, already on its way to guide them safely into port. The jaunty little craft was painted bright red with a number in black on the bow to identify the pilot. Its lateen-rigged sails flapped prettily in the morning breeze.

“That’ll be for us.” Zack’s voice came from behind her.

She turned, stared, and did a double take. “Zack! You look different!”

He rubbed a big hand over his smooth chin. “The whiskers had to go in this heat. What do you think?”

She smiled. “I think you are indeed a handsome devil.”

He reached out to stroke her cheek with his fingertips. “And you, my love, are a cunning liar.”

“Look over there!” she cried excitedly, pointing to port. “It’s the ancient city. I recognize it from Father’s descriptions and the sketches he made when he was here.” Her eyes swept to starboard, over the palm-fringed shoreline of the island. “Oh, Zack, I can just make out the peaks of the Western Ghat Mountains. The whole scene looks like a painting. It’s too beautiful to be real!”

He twined one of her curls around his finger, tugging gently to bring her back to face him. “So are you, Persia. So are you.”

She did look particularly lovely this morning in a white-on-white embroidered frock of Indian cotton. The collar was high and the sleeves full and long, but the tight-fitting bodice displayed her charms to their very best advantage. She had swept her hair up into a red-gold pile of waves, with side curls framing her face and feathery wisps at the back of her neck. Tiny river pearls glowed at her ears, reflecting the iridescence of her delicate skin.

She offered him a flirtatious smile, knowing he was admiring her costume. “I like your white linen, too. And the sun hat is a nice touch.”

He tipped his pith helmet to her, then opened his jacket and strutted about in a circle, allowing her to admire every linen-clad inch. “The very height of fashion in
Injia,
my dear girl!” he teased, successfully imitating the accent of the Britishers who ruled the land.

“Cap’n Hazzard, sir, the pilot’s ready to board,” Stoner called.

“Permission to board granted,” Zack answered back. Then to Persia he said, “Duty calls. We’ll be anchoring in the harbor within the hour. Then you and I will go ashore to pay our first calls on the ice merchants.”

“I’ll be ready,” she promised.

With the pilot safely on board, as law dictated, they began their slow progress into the crowded harbor. Entering the congested waters was something like threading a needle, Persia thought as they wove their way among ships from every nation, dows, lighters, and houseboats where naked babies crawled about the decks amidst chickens and dogs while wrinkled old grannies watched with alert black eyes.

They anchored in a choice spot near the waterfront. Ice ships, she knew, were given preferred berths so that their precious cargoes could be unloaded with as much haste as possible. They could expect to have lost about one-third of their merchandise to melting already during the journey. But even at that, ice was so dear in India that it was a profitable cargo at three halfpence a pound.

Hating to leave her vantage point for an instant, but knowing that Zack would be impatient to get ashore, she hurried below to retrieve her wide-brimmed straw hat, parasol, and white gloves. When Zack saw her come back on deck, he was quite convinced that she would be the prettiest supercargo the ice merchants of Bombay had ever laid eyes on.

The pilot received his pay of one hundred and ten rupees, then left them. But before Zack and Persia could climb down into their own launch, visitors arrived. The customs house officer, who would be required to live aboard for the duration of the
Madagascar’s
stay, came up the ladder. He was a short, stocky, jovial sort, who waxed eloquent on Persia’s charms and bowed over her gloved hand longer than Zack considered proper.

Hardly had the captain and his lovely supercargo finished talking with the customs officer before two Parsees—members of a religious sect who were also Bombay merchants—pulled up in their small boat, bringing mail that had arrived for Persia. There was a letter from her father and one from Europa. Both had been sent by overland mail after her departure, traveling by way of a Cunard steamer to England, then on another boat by way of the Strait of Gibraltar through the Mediterranean to Alexandria, and from there by camel caravan to Suez before sailing on across the Arabian and Red Seas to reach her in Bombay. There was also a third envelope with only her name scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting.

Persia longed to read her letters, but she understood the necessity of first paying her respects to the white-turbaned Parsees. Undoubtedly, the success of her ice-selling mission would depend to no small degree upon this pair of swarthy, softspoken Indians. They introduced themselves as Allbless and Jeejeebhoy.

“You and the captain will take tea with us later, Madam Blackwell?” invited Jeejeebhoy, the taller of the twosome, bowing subserviently all the while.

Persia was shocked. Not by his invitation, but because of the way he addressed her. Zack had introduced her to these men as “Miss Whiddington.” How could they know of her proxy marriage?

“We’ll be happy to.” Zack, frowning, answered when he saw that Persia could not.

“Then we will expect you around four.” The pair bowed themselves off the ship and departed back to the city.

“Persia, what’s got into you?” Zack demanded.

Her face was pale, her hands trembling. “Didn’t you hear what he called me, Zack? How could he know?”

Zack dismissed her worries with a wave of his hand and a broad smile. “Forget it, darling! As you said, Blackwell has probably received the letter announcing your arrival. News has a way of spreading, even in the far corners of the world. Besides, isn’t your mail addressed that way?”

“Oh, yes. How silly of me! Hearing him call me that… I don’t know, it just sent a chill through me.”

“The boat’s ready, Cap’n,” Stoner called.

As was the nautical custom, Zack waited until Persia, Stoner, and the steward, Dawkin, were in the longboat before he hopped aboard. The other two men would buy fresh supplies ashore while he and Persia saw to their business. The rest of the crew, even those rowing them in, would not set foot on dry land until all the ice was unloaded.

Even as the longboat made its way to Buna Bandar, the docking place, half a dozen red-sailed bumboats were on their way out to the ship to try to sell all manner of exotic gewgaws to the
Madagascar’s
crew. Persia spied some of their merchandise—sandalwood boxes, ivory carvings, fresh dates, even live monkeys.

The dock was a mob scene. No sooner had Zack leaped to the quay and offered a helping hand to Persia than they were besieged by vendors of all sorts. One shrunken old man with a wispy goatee pressed them to buy his fresh produce—strange, bright-colored fruits like none Persia had ever seen back home in New England. Another offered colorful fabrics by the bolt. And still another, silk and ostrich-feather fans decorated with glistening pearls.

Zack must have noticed Persia’s eyes sparkling when they lit on these. “Would you like one, darling!” he asked.

“Oh, Zack, they must be very expensive!”

He laughed. “There’s hardly a thing around here that could be less dear than feathers, silk, or pearls.” He beckoned to the young merchant. “You there, girl! Let us see your fans.”

The dark-faced beauty pushed through the crowd and spread her wares before them on a reed mat. Persia couldn’t decide. There were fans of silk and lace, and feathers tinted every color of the rainbow. The attached pearls—from black to gray to pinkish white—all cast a soft glow. Suddenly she noticed an exquisite fan of the palest gray silk. It looked almost silver in the bright sunlight. It was edged with blue-gray pearls and trimmed with delicate lace medallions shot through with silver.

“That one, girl.” Zack pointed to the very fan Persia had been eyeing.
“Kitna?”
he demanded, asking how much in the native tongue.

“One
Yanqui
dolla’, John!”

“Oh, Zack, it’s lovely!” Persia enthused. “Thank you!”

Persia spread her fan and gave it a good wave under her chin. Then she brought it up to cover all but her eyes and offered Zack a slow, seductive wink.

He chuckled at her. “Now, don’t you go flirting with these hot-blooded Indians, darling. I bought you that to keep you cool. Remember it!”

Suddenly, Persia’s eyes went beyond Zack’s laughing face to a figure lurking at the edge of a group of men. The others were sailors on shore leave; she could tell by the way they were dressed. They seemed not even to notice the man, so intent were they on puffing at their hubble-bubble pipes.

The stranger resembled no one else she had seen so far in Bombay. He was robed in white cotton drapes that covered him from head to toe, leaving only his swarthy face showing. She felt a tremor pass through her. She tried to look away but found she couldn’t. His bold gaze held her hypnotized.

Slowly, the strange man raised one hand toward her as if beckoning her to him. She had taken several steps in his direction—totally against her will—when Zack caught her arm.

“Persia, where are you going? The customs house is this way. Darling, you must stay close to me. I can’t have you getting lost in this mob. It’s not safe.”

“Zack, look at that man over there.” She pointed to where he had been, but he was gone. Perplexed, she scanned the crowd. He seemed to have vanished into air.

“What man?” Zack asked.

“I know he was there. I saw him!”

“You’ll see a lot of odd beings before we leave this place. Look at that fellow over there, charming his snake, and that one with the wire-walking rat.” He felt Persia shudder at the sights. “Come along now. Cunningham will be waiting for us.”

As they inched their way among the throng, Persia kept glancing back over her shoulder. She had the feeling that the man was still there somewhere, staring after her.

Finally, they turned into the main street that would take them to the customs house. There they would meet with the Tudor Ice Company’s Bombay representative to make arrangements to have the cargo unloaded and taken to the elaborate stone ice house in the heart of town. Packed in rice chaff there, it would be safe from further loss until it was sold.

The street was jammed with humanity—natives who ranged in color from ebony to coffee, foreign sailors, staid officials of the East India Company, and ever-present sacred cows, plopped down wherever they pleased. The foot traffic flowed like waves parted by a seawall around these unconcerned beasts.

“We’d make better time if we hired a palanquin,” Zack said, already motioning toward four coolies carrying one of the boxlike conveyances on their shoulders.

Persia wanted to object. She had finally shaken off the unsettling effect of the strange man’s gaze and was now enjoying the exotic sights all about her. But they were here for a purpose, and in their particular business every moment counted.

The four thin but muscular men, who wore what appeared to be handkerchiefs about their waists and tableclothes about their heads, stopped before the pair to let down their shouldered carriage. Zack handed Persia inside and then stepped in himself. Curtains on all four sides flapped loosely but kept out some of the dust and noise. When the men took up their heavy burden again, the motion sent Persia sprawling across Zack’s lap. He righted her, laughing. A moment later, they were on their way at a quick, steady trot.

“There, that’s better,” Zack said with a sigh. “The place is dizzying—all that humanity. It’s like being trapped inside a beehive.” He reached out and fingered the coarse gunny material surrounding them. “I like these curtains, too.”

Persia was about to comment on his poor taste in yard goods when all of a sudden she understood his true meaning. Before she could open her mouth to say a word, he was kissing her—very deeply, very thoroughly. His kisses always thrilled her, but this one especially so. There was something more exciting than usual about being paid such lavish and intimate attention in the broad light of day, in the middle of a busy city street, even if no one could see them. It made her feel quite wicked, in fact!

“Hm-m-m,” he sighed. “I wish it was farther to the customs house and this bower of ours was a bit larger.”

She stroked her folded fan across his smooth cheek seductively. “Sorry, my love. You’ll have to wait for the rest.”

He cupped her breast and squeezed playfully. “Why, darling? I could pay our four good fellows a few extra rupees to carry us off to some secluded spot under a banyan tree and leave us there for a time.”

She sniffed haughtily at his suggestion. “And meanwhile, in this heat, we would be losing hard cash to severe meltage!”

He groaned. “Spoken like a true supercargo.”

The customs house was very British in character, as were most of the newer buildings of the island city, all cool stone and tall windows. While Zack went to file the required papers of entry, Persia waited in an antechamber for Tudor’s agent, Mr. Cunningham, to receive them. She was glad for the time alone to read her mail.

Her father’s letter was all excitement over her trip and good wishes on her new venture. He meant, of course, her sale of the ice, not her marriage to Cyrus Blackwell. It was plain to Persia that he was receiving a vicarious thrill from her adventures. She was glad. She made a mental note to write him immediately after dinner tonight with full details of everything she had seen and done so far in Bombay.