The King

smiles, 'let us say that we load cargo for Canton, beginning tomorrow. We may be in the Pearl River by the beginning of the trading season, or slightly before, late August. We may stay the entire six months in Canton, we may not, depending on whether we discover the identity or presence of those French pirates who have been preying upon English vessels. We may need your troops earlier than March of '85. So once you have recruited, and trained your sepoys to a fair level of competence, you will take ship to Bencoolen on Sumatra, the problems there notwithstanding, and continue to train in jungle conditions, awaiting our summons. The transport will stay with you, so you might practice embarkation and amphibious landings in ship's boats. I do believe we are agreed in all particulars now, Sir Hugo? And I am sure that your brevet to lieutenant-colonel shall be forthcoming, if you satisfy my desires, hmmm?'

'I believe we understand each other completely, Mister Twigg,' Sir Hugo smiled back. Of course they did, Alan thought! His father had just picked Twigg's pockets, gotten himself a boost in rank and had the man over a barrel. Twigg had to give in, or have nothing to fight pirates with. The deployment to Bencoolen was Twigg's only sop to his ego. Sir Hugo would pay that price for everything else.

'This'll be expensive,' Wythy sighed. 'Thank the good Lord cotton an' opium's dead-cheap. We'll still have a full cargo for Canton.'

'Opium, Mister Wythy?' Chiswick asked, breaking his long junior officer's silence. 'That's some sort of medicament, is it not, sir?'

'An' a most powerful one, sir,' Tom Wythy beamed. 'The Chinee desire it more'n anything we could haul from England. Their mandarins'd cut your head clean off yer shoulders for smugglin' it, but the profit's so great, they can't stop the trade. Ye smoke it, sir, smoke it an' see the dragon! Bliss of heaven in a little pill of it rolled up in a pipe. Hard as life is for the Chinee, they need it. An' once they try it a few times, they need it even more, until they pay any price t' get it. The Co Hong merchants won't touch it, but their creatures or the mandarins'll slip down t' Lintin Island or Nan'Ao an' buy ev'ry scrap we may carry. Pay good silver, too. Taels o' silver… lacs of the stuff. See, 'tis the only goods we have so we may get silver to support the China trade, or we'd bankrupt the Treasury back home, else. Country ships sell opium for silver, the silver goes t' the East India Company for our legal cargoes, and they use the silver t' purchase teas, silks, furniture an' such. We make a profit on the opium, the Company makes money, too.'

'Couldn't make a farthing on the China trade without it, Captain Chiswick,' Sir Hugo added. 'The so-called Celestial Empire turns its nose up at most English wares. Oh, some Berlin goods, some English woolens go down well. Clocks, expensive gew-gaws and toys. But for bulk trade, as I'm sure Mister Twigg will agree, there's little we may offer they would buy. Arrogant bastards.'

'Gangetic opium, Bengali and Madrassi cotton from which they weave nankeen,' Twigg added lazily, with a wave of one lean hand. 'I lay you any odds, sirs, that whatever Frenchmen are behind this nefarious business will be deep into the opium trade as well. So what better cargo for us, the profit besides? The stuff's cheap as dirt, and goes for its weight in silver, damn near. From which profits, we shall outfit Sir Hugo's battalion, and confound the plans of our foes. 'Tis only fitting, if one thinks about it for a moment.'

'To opium!' Wythy proposed, raising his glass. 'Opium, and lashes of silver!'

Once they had drunk the health of the humble poppy, Twigg rose. 'Well, that should do it for this evening, sirs. Sir Hugo, my thanks to you for a splendid repast. Whilst back in England, I despaired I'd ever eat as well as ever I did in India, and your khansamah is worthy of the Great Moghul's. Should you tire of having to beat him when he goes ghazi on you, I'd admire to hire him as my personal cook.' Twigg didn't even sound half disgruntled at being had.

'So happy you enjoyed it, sir,' Sir Hugo replied courteously, knowing it was pretty much a gilt and be-shit compliment that Twigg was offering his hospitality, a covering for the bile he really felt.

They filed down to the first floor entry hall to reclaim then-hats, swords and canes prior to departure.

'If you travel so well-armed, sir,' Sir Hugo seemed to come upon like an idle thought, 'your ship Telesto stands a much better chance of making Macao than most. Your talk of opium… to enter better into the spirit of your venture, what would you say to allowing me to round up a few pounds of my own to purchase a few crates, to go with your cargo as well? Full charge on the carrying fee, of course.'

'A few crates, aye, Sir Hugo,' Twigg smirked, and Alan suddenly realized why his father had seemed so pale and upset by the news about the Indiaman, the Macclesfield, disappearing. He'd probably had a ton or two of opium consigned into her!

But just why should I expect the greedy old fart to not essay every avenue on the way to bloody showers of 'blunt,' he wondered? Come to think of it, if it's that bloody profitable, I wish I had a thousand pounds to purchase a share of the cargo for myself! It's nothing that evil-it's the backbone of the China trade. Twigg said so himself!

'Bide awhile, Alan,' Sir Hugo bade just before he got out the door, 'if you may excuse my son returning to the ship, Captain Ayscough. We have much to catch up on.'

Oh, shit, Alan sighed inside. I should have known I'd not get away with a clean pair of heels.

Chapter 4

They repaired back to the upper level, to another room that was screened off from the dining area by a carved wood purdah screen that ran the whole width of the huge main salon. Sir Hugo shucked out of his regimentals, doffing red coat, waist-coat, rank gorget and neck-cloth. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his clothes willy-nilly, but there was a bearer there to catch them before they even hit the floor. The white powdered wig with the tight side-curls and short false queue went next as Sir Hugo unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

'Make yourself comfortable, lad,' he offered. There were no real chairs or couches in this room, so Alan wondered where he could indeed make himself comfortable. Sit on the floor, on the piles of richly brocaded pillows? On the intricate carpets?

Yes, that was where Sir Hugo was seating himself, on a Bengali dhuree rug that held a dozen huge pillows, while one of the younger khitmatgars came trotting in with a folding table support about eight inches high made of ebony wood, and a second servitor fetched a huge brass table or tray (maybe it did duty as both, Alan thought) to sit atop it.

'Oh, for God's sake, take your ease!' Sir Hugo snapped. There, that tone in his voice was more like the scheming, petulant bastard that Lewrie had grown to know and despise. 'You must be stifling in that neck- cloth.'

The khitmatgars were back with another load of goodies to set upon the tray table. Wine and spirits, clay pipes and tobacco humidor, a bowl of fruit and some candied dates. Even some Persian muck they called halvah. Gauzy, diaphanous insect curtains were lowered over the wide windows to the balcony, whilst from outside…

i

'For God's sake, a band?' Alan grimaced as a set of native musicians hit their stride with something plaintively twanging, ululating, throbbing and thumping on sitars, flutes and madals. 'You do live well, I'll allow you that… Sir Hugo.'

'Say 'father,' do, Alan,' Sir Hugo grunted.

'Mine arse on a bandbox!' Alan snapped back.

'Have it your own way, but sit the hell down and have some wine, at least,' Sir Hugo pressed in a reasonable tone.

Alan heaved a heavy sigh and untied his neck-cloth, sank down to sit cross-legged on the cushions and took a glass of claret.

There were a couple of tall candelabras made of brass between them, elaborate things fashioned from the arms and bodies of Hindoo gods and goddesses-thank the Lord most of 'em had eight or ten arms to hold that many candles. Off to either side, there were shallow charcoal braziers, now fuming with sandalwood incense amid some other aromas.

'Keeps the mosquitos away,' Sir Hugo yawned. 'Sandalwood, citron and patchouli.