"Thankee, sir," Cony replied, brightening. "Main phir laut kar ahoongaa. Be back later, girl. Teen rupee? Three, darlin'? Make it easy on a poor sailor."
"Chha rupee," the girl demanded, and she wouldn't go any lower than six, much as Cony wheedled "panch" or "chaar"-five or four.
Cony finally sighed and they proceeded on down the street, accompanied by the derisive shouts of the spurned girl. "Cutch-admi! Banchuts! Sastaa banchuts! Jahntee!"*
"None too thrilled, sounds like," Alan said with a grin, enjoying himself hugely.
"What's she saying?"
"From the sound of it, I'd say it's something close to 'cheap bastards,' Mister McTaggart. Right, Cony?"
"Ajit, 'e didn't learn me none o' that, sir," Cony admitted. '"Spect I'd better 'ave me another lesson'r two."
They got back to the docks and the factor's offices just after midday, glad for the coolness of the mud-bricked walls and thick tile roof. Wythy had told them most white men took up the practice of napping through the heat of the afternoon and not stirring out until the sun was beginning to descend below the lowest yard-arms. To one so lazy as Lewrie if left to his own devices, it sounded like a marvelous invention. He had just found a bale of cotton on which to doze off when Burgess Chiswick came to look him up.
"Damme, but you look hellish dashing," Alan said in greeting. Chiswick was now clad in a red serge coat with broad white turnback lapels and cuffs, the uniform coat of the East India Company, with many figured buttonholes and brass buttons. A gorget of officer's rank hung on his upper breast, and each shoulder bore a silvered chainmail patch of rank, which could also turn a swordcut from above. "An ensign in 'John Company' now, are you?"
"A captain, no less, Alan!" Burgess preened. "In charge of the light company of our battalion. Can you imagine it?"
"By God, how bloody grand for you!" Alan laughed, shaking his hand warmly. "Here now, do I dine you out tonight in celebration, or is it your treat to 'wet down' your promotion?"
*"Poor [excuses for] men! Scum! Cheap scum! Oh, one pubic-hairs!"
"Oh, I've already been dined in at our mess," Burgess replied, fanning himself with his black cocked hat. "Good bunch of rogues, they are, let me tell you. Settled into my quarters. Been swotting up my Hindee with my bearer, Nandu. I'm the only white officer in the company, you know. Rest are natives. God, you should dine at my bungalow. My own private bloody house, if you can feature it! And cheap at the price, too. Whole squad of servants. Well, I share it with another officer, but it's so damned huge! You must see it. Had a chance to get leave yet?"
"Just this morning, and more to come once the sun's down tonight. Cony and I spotted a little street near here full of whores. Thought I might go back…"
"Cutch-whores," Burgess sniffed, having picked up the language awfully fast, a lot faster than Alan had. "Fessenden, the other captain I share the house with, has three native girls in his bibikhana. His own bloody harem! Rent clean un's cheaper by the month than an hour or two with the public girls! Or just buy 'em outright."
"By God, I could get to love the East Indies!" Alan exclaimed in delight, knocked back on his heels by the possibilities.
"But, why I'm here. Met my battalion major when I was dined in, and he's asked me to supper at his bungalow this evening. And he extends an invitation to you as well."
"Now why the devil would he do that for me?" Alan wondered.
"I mentioned your name whilst I was giving my record," Burgess replied. "That business at Yorktown, the siege and our escape in those barges you cobbled into sea-worthy boats came up, and once he heard your name, he was dead keen on hearing the whole thing, start to finish. And when I told him you were fourth officer in the ship that brought me out here, he perked up sharp as a fox-hound, damned near ordered me to bring you round."
"Stap me if that don't sound hellish like somebody in this world thinks I'm famous for something," Alan exclaimed, beaming, still a little bemused by the whole thing, but eager for a chance to shine with his betters-and a shot at free victuals. God knew he'd had little of either in the last year. "So who is this fellow?"
"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.