The King

And once round the Cape of Good Hope, it was hard gales, black clouds and rain like buckshot, Telesto shrinking from fifteen hundred tons or so to the burthen of a rowboat, pitching and swooping like an errant water butt. It was sometimes reassuring that Falconer's consoled him in Item the Tenth under Winds that

'Between the fouthern latitudes of 10 and 30 degrees in the Indian Ocean, the general trade wind about the S.E. by S. is found to blow all the year long in the fame manner as in the like latitudes in the Ethiopic ocean; and during the fix months from May to December, thefe winds do reach to within two degrees of the Equator; but during the other fix months, from November to June, a N.W. wind blows in the tract lying between the 3rd and 10th degree of fouthern latitude, in the meridian of the north end of Madagafcar; and between the 2nd and 12th degree of fourth latitude, near the longitude of Sumatra and Java.'

Lewrie was a bit leery, though, of the footnote from Robert's Navigation, that 'the fwiftnefs of the wind in a great ftorm is not more than 50 to 60 miles in an hour; and a common brifk gale is about 15 miles an hour.' He saw winds greater than that daily.

Once far enough north, they found the tract of wind which Falconer mentioned that ran like a racecourse between Madagascar and the African coast, fresh from the south sou'west, which at the Equator changed to the west sou'west.

And then came the Monsoon winds, which at that season of the year, were out of the sou'west in the Gulf of Bengal, none too gentle, either, as the late-year nor'east Monsoons would be. All in all, it was a horrid voyage for the most part. Captain Ayscough lit a fire under everyone's tails, and drove Telesto like Jehu drove his chariot, skating the ragged edge of being overpressed by the winds all the way, beating their way southerly along the coast of Africa below the Equator instead of taking the easier way over toward the Brazilian coast, as most Indiamen did.

Duty, sun sights, baking or boiling in tropic heat, shivering by turns in fear and cold, drenched to the skin in easterly gales and the air and water hot as a mug of 'flip,' sweltering in tarred tarpaulin foul-weather gear-weary enough to use his fingers to keep his eyes open in the middle watch, which was his by right of being junior-most officer.

'If I ever get back home, I'm going to become a farmer,' he kept telling himself.

They smelled it before they could see it, even with a wind up their starboard quarter, in the last few hours of darkness before the sun burst above the horizon like an exploding howitzer shell. For a change, the winds were light, the seas calm and barely ruffled, barely heaving-more like lake sailing. Telesto gurgled and soughed instead of roaring and sloshing, her forefoot and cutwater under her bows parting almost still waters in a continuous, lazy surge.

'What the hell is that?' Lewrie wondered aloud, wiggling his nose like a beagle on a puzzling new trail. After six and a half months, barring the occasional port-call when they broke their passage at Oporto, Madeira and Table Bay at Capetown for hurriedly laden galley fuel, water and cargo, his olfactory senses had been brutalized by the stench of Ship. Tar and salt, fish-room, rancid cheeses and butter, salt-meats fermenting in brine, livestock in the manger, the odors of his fellow travelers below decks.

'Land, sir?' the middle watch quartermaster speculated from the huge double wheel, which now could be held and spun one-handed in the light airs.

Yes, there was a hint of coastline: rotting seaweed and the fishy aroma that most people called an ocean smell. But there was something else peeking from beneath that. A hint of cinnamon, pepper, coriander, almost like a Hungary Water that ladies dabbed on-perfume! First a tantalizing fantasy, then a real whiff.

'Flowers!' Alan yelped in glee. 'Lots of green plants. And flowers! Ahoy, bow lookouts! See anything?'

'Nothin', sir!'

'Mister Hogue, leadsmen to the fore-chains. I think we're in soundings. Boy!' He directed the sleepy cabin servant-ship's boy on deck to turn the watch glasses on the half-hour bell. 'Go aft and inform Captain Ayscough we're in soundings.'

'Wake 'im oop, zir?' The boy yawned, stirred from his nap.

'Hell yes, wake him up. Witty, take a telescope and go aloft. It lacks two hours 'til sunrise, but you might be able to see something even so.'

'A good morrow to you, Mister Lewrie,' a voice called in the darkness. There was but a sliver of moon to see by, but Alan knew Ayscough's stern tones well by then. 'Soundings, is it?'

'Smells hellish like it, sir. I've sent a man aloft with a glass, Mister Hogue, the master's mate, and hands to the forechains with the deep-sea leads. Last cast of the log showed just at five knots.'

Ayscough came close by his side, clad in nightshirt and his watchcoat, his hair tousled by sleep. By the faint glow from the binnacle lanterns Alan could see him close his eyes and sniff deep.

'Patchouli,' Ayscough muttered, smiling fondly. 'Perfumed tresses. Perfumed mustaches. Cooking ghee. Jungle forests and a million flowers opening. Charcoal-burners, garbage-middens, sacred cow and elephant dung. Exotic attars and shite. India, at last!'

'Hun-drayed faa-thim!' a leadsman in the chains sang out slowly. 'One hunn-drayd faa-thim t' this liine!'

'Six and a half months,' Alan chuckled. 'A damned fine voyage!'

'A dam' fast voyage, you mean,' Ayscough commented, leaving his pleasant reverie. 'T'only joy of it was passing those 'John Company' Indiamen like they were anchored fast in the Pool of London! Still, it had its moments. Proper navigation cut weeks off it. One thing I picked up from an evening with Jemmy Trevenen and Captain King of Resistance during the war.'

'I met King once, sir, at Turk's Island.'

'Did you indeed? Clever men. Most masters would stagger from landfall to landfall, you know,' Ayscough mused. 'Way over to here, double the distance of their passage, just 'cause that's the way they learned how to do so. But, with a reliable chronometer, the skills at plotting position, one may cut the odd corner now and then, taking the unknown shorter way. Most of 'em'd be satisfied if they could hug the coast. Like breaking across the Atlantic to the West Indies. Know that ninety percent of the ships still fall as far to the suth'rd as the latitude of Dominica, then cross due west to make their landfall? Just 'cause Dominica 's peaks are a sure seamark one cannot miss. When the Trades are the same south of Cape Verde, and one could scuttle across diagonally and save a week. A week, sir!'

'As we have, sir,' Alan agreed, toadying a little.

'Hope you learned a little, then, Mister Lewrie. Something to consider on future commissions. Boy, go run and wake the master Mister Brainard,' Ayscough directed. 'Tell him, my compliments, and we're in soundings of the Hooghly Bar. Hundred fathom now, and I desire his expertise before the coast begins shoaling.'

' 'Iss, zir,' the boy replied, a trifle dubious he could remember all those 'break-teeth' words in one sitting.

'Fiive an' ninety faa-thim!' a leadsman crowed loud as single rook on a foggy moor morning. 'Fiive an' ninety faa-thim t' this line! Bott-tim o' grey mudd!'

'Grey mud, aye,' Ayscough grunted in familiar pleasure. 'Just what I'd expect. Hmm, five knot y'did say, Mister Lewrie? Pipe up to six by sunrise, if I'm any judge of these waters. Have the bosun pipe 'all-hands' at the change of watch. We'll take in t'gallants and feel our way in gently same time's we scrub decks. Coffee?'

'I'd admire some, yes sir.'

'I'll send you a mug once my steward's brewed up a pot for me and Mister Brainard,' Ayscough said as he was leaving. 'Good thinking on the leadsmen and the overhead lookout, Mister Lewrie.'

'Thankee, sir,' Alan replied to the departing back. Ayscough was not lavish with his compliments. To earn even that slight, grudging notice was as much approval as most men would get from him in a full three years' commission. Indeed, a red-letter morning for him!

Low marshes. Swaying oceans of reeds straggling off to dryer ground. And heat. Harsh, crushing, damp heat worthy of a washerwoman's boiling, steaming tub of laundry water and the fire that stoked it, the sort of fire that could melt iron and forge artillery.

Once past the Hooghly Bar and into the river proper, Lewrie envied the hands aloft, up where the wind still rilled the sails. On deck, it was hot as the hinges of Hell, and the pounded tar between the deck planks softened and ran sluggish and shiny as treacle.

'My God!' he cursed, mopping his face with a sleeve. Under his cocked hat, his hair was plastered to his head with perspiration, and sweat glued his shirt and breeches to his body.