The King

though. It is my experience in Asian waters that thin gauze should be procured for insect netting, if not for each hand to swath about his hammock, then at least for the hatches that lead below. I do not know why, nor do any physicians of my past acquaintance, but the incidence of malaria is much reduced if this is done.'

'As long as it does not come out of ship's funds, though…' the purser objected. 'Why, the Navy Board's…'

'Silence,' Twigg snapped, raising a hand in warning. 'And I tire of reminding you, sir, that I and Mister Wythy are funding this vessel? You may not care about the health of the men in your charge, but I do. If only for the inability to find trained seamen enough in India to replace the ones who die. And die they will, in job lots, no matter what precautions we may take.' • 'I merely meant…' the purser stammered on, red-faced.

'I'll speak to you in my cabins later, Mister Abernathy,' the captain snapped. 'Do what… our owners suggest.'

After witnessing that entertaining exchange at the expense of 'Mr. Nip-cheese,' as Abernathy and most pursers were termed, Lewrie went to the larboard bulwarks to stare at the ghats that led down to the river in terraced steps. He'd seen insect netting used before in the West Indies, and sickly as that region was, he'd expected nothing less of the East Indies. Besides, he consoled himself, I've had the Yellow Jack once before, and everyone said back on Antigua that once you survived it, you couldn't get it again. He rubbed the top of his left arm where the family surgeon had punctured him over and over and made him howl with pain and terror even before he was out of nappies, to inoculate him against the smallpox. There were two major risks of the tropics taken care of. As for the rest, he was young, healthy as a rutting yearling bull, wasn't he? He was well-off financially, an established English gentleman-his kind was bloody immortal!

As for other diseases, he'd sleep with the nets, drink nothing but imported wine or ale, make sure his water was boiled first should he be forced to drink such a dull beverage-perhaps nothing but tea, he speculated. One had to boil tea-water if one wanted a decent pot.

Food could be washed in boiled water, he supposed, and anyway, there was salt-meat to fall back on. And he would take his sheep-gut condom ashore with him, should he ever be allowed ashore. Twigg and Wythy hadn't snarled at him in the last two months, so he supposed he had outlasted their anger at him. He'd not been allowed ashore at Oporto, Madeira or Capetown. Surely, he'd touch land-and a few other softer things-here in Calcutta!

Chapter 2

With so many hired stevedores, and those working for less than anyone could credit, the cargo was finally landed in their warehouse and factory ashore. Twigg and Wythy went with it, thank the good Lord, to establish their putative trading firm. Telesto rode higher out of the water. Firewood and water were brought aboard and stowed away. A distillery was established at the factory to supply them daily. Crates of chickens, small flocks of goats and sheep were hoisted aboard for fresh meat. The crew complained about the lack of juicy fresh beef, no matter the explanations that cattle were a protected species to Hindoos. The passengers had left the first day, Burgess Chiswick included. They'd shared one last bumper of claret and then he was off to Fort William for his assignment with the East India Company's army. There were some more chores that Captain Ayscough wished performed before shore leave would be allowed. The ship was smoked and scoured below decks, the bilges pumped clean and the many rats that had come aboard with the cargo hunted down and dispatched, or at least thinned out. Rigging had to be re-rove to replace spliced or storm-raveled cordage; sails had to be patched. Cosmetics about the look of the ship could go hang for a while, but she must be made ready in all respects to go to sea at a moment's notice before the hands were to be allowed a monumental rut or two.

Finally, after six days of labors, Ayscough summoned all hands aft and announced that he was pleased enough to let them have leave.

'Now this is a rupee' Tom Wythy said, counting out coins on his desk in the factory offices ashore, while Alan fidgeted and wriggled with impatience. 'Worth about fifteen rupees to the pound sterling. You run across a gold coin, that's a mohur. Same as a guinea.'

'Aye, sir.'

'Think of a rupee as a strong shilling. Now these are annas. Like pence, but sixteen to the rupee. Have you got that so far,

sir?'

'Aye, I think so, Mister Wythy,' Alan almost groaned.

'And pyce are like ha'pennies-four to the anna. You'll be amazed how cheap things are here in Calcutta.'

'How much-I say kit nahT Alan recited. 'Bahut mehanga is too much. God help me if the bastard wants to haggle, though, I'm flat out of the lingo.'

'Round the port, Fort William and the European cantonment, ye'll find enough bazaar-wallahs and bunniahs who savvy English,' Wythy growled. 'Their stores and stalls'd die if they couldn't. Mind now, ye'll be safer not goin' into the native quarters without a guide or bearer. Yih achcha jaga naheen, sahib! A no good place, 'specially for aferinghee such as y'self. End up with yer purse lifted, poxed to the eyebrows by some curcfc-whore, or knifed in an alley by some bud-mashes.'

'The third officer and I, and my man Cony, will go together, sir,' Alan assured him. 'Swords for all, and a pocket pistol each.'

'Good thinking,' Wythy allowed. 'Well, ye're on yer own, God help ye. Enjoy.'

Enjoy, Alan did! Though for the first few minutes, he wasn't sure he could walk. He'd not been off a ship's deck for over six months, rocketing from beam to beam in storms, permanently heeled over in strong winds, and used to the motion of a ship. Even during their brief port stays, Telesto still snubbed at her cables, lifted and rolled gently to tide or off-shore breezes, and heavy as she was, was never still.

Once outside, they'd headed up one of the major thoroughfares, aiming for a grove of monstrous trees they couldn't recognize, anxious for some shade, but they simply couldn't attain them.

The land was so still, yet it seemed to heave and roll, to yaw to windward like a ship with too much weather- helm! Alan found himself paying off to leeward, staggering and shambling as if he'd just put down half a dozen bottles of wine. Colin McTaggart and Cony were not much help, either. Either they were staggering on the opposite tack, crossing under his hawse and threatening to trip him up, or they were bearing down on each other in collision.

Holding on to each other to raft up for mutual support wasn't such a good idea, either, for they tugged in opposite directions even standing still!

'God, 'elp me, Mister Lewrie, sir!' Cony wailed. 'H'an't nivver been land-sick afore, but h'it's acomin' over me 'ellish strong, damme'f h'it h'ain't!'

'Perhaps if we closed our eyes,' McTaggart suggested, his dark tan turning very pale. 'Noo, that's nae the way.'

Alan had tried that, but as soon as he did, the canals of his ears began to swirl like milk in a butter-churn, making him feel as if he were spiraling out of the sky like a well-shot duck!

'Can't be the cholera, or malaria, could it?' Alan paled.

'Nae sa soon, surely not!' McTaggart sighed. 'An ale shop up yonder. Let's hae us a sit-doon, for the love o' God!'

A few milds, and some time safely ensconsed in solid chairs seemed to help abate the reeling.

'Looks as if we're not the only ones suffering,' Alan pointed out. Three hands off another ship were short- tacking up the walks in front of the European shops on the far side of the street, careering from storefront to the verge of the curbing in a series of short tacks from beam to beam quick as a regatta of tiny pleasure boats on the Thames. One grizzled bosun followed them; older and wiser to the predicament, he trailed the fingers of his right hand along the buildings for a reference point, groping like a blind man.

They espied several others who did not suffer mal de terre as badly, these bucketing