"'Twill take a lifetime the rate these heathens dawdle." Elkington wiped a sweaty arm across his brow. Deep bags sagged under his bloodshot eyes. "An' we'll be months movin' the lead and ironwork with these damn'd rickety carts. Not to mention the silver bullion for buyin' commodity. We'll have to get a barge."
"How many more trips do you need to bring in the wool?"
"Can't say. But 'tis clear we'll need more of these damn'd carts, for what little they're worth." As Elkington turned to spit, he spotted a porter who had let a roll of woolen cloth dip into the river, and his neck veins pulsed. "Hey, you heathen bastard, mind the water!" He stumbled after the terrified man trailing a stream of oaths.
Hawksworth leaned against the wooden spokes of a bullock cart and quickly passed the stiletto from his boot back to his belt. As he watched, the bark tipped, beginning to list dangerously, and then he heard Elkington command the porters to stop the loading and prepare to get underway. Only five of the twenty-five bullock carts had been emptied, and the sun was already approaching midafternoon. As Hawksworth had watched the men at work, some corner of his mind had become dimly aware of a curious anomaly. Whereas the Shahbandar's porters were working at full speed, the drivers of the bullock carts seemed actually to be hindering the unloading—moving the carts around in a confused way that always kept the work disorganized. And a number of answers began, just began, to fall into place.
"Captain-General Hawksworth, do you expect to be joinin' us?" George Elkington stalked up and began to scrape his muddy boots on the spokes of the bullock cart
"Elkington, I want you to dismiss these drivers." Hawksworth ignored his sarcastic tone. "I want the Shahbandar to supply all our men from now on."
"What the bloody hell for?" Elkington tightened his hat and hitched up his belt.
"Something's wrong. Did you have any accidents coming in from Swalley?"
"Accidents? Nay, not a bleedin' one. Unless you'd call the axle of a cart breakin' the first day and blockin' a narrow turn in the road, with mud on both sides so we couldn't pass and had to unload the whole bleedin' lot and look half the mornin' for another cart to hire. An' then the drivers had a fight over who was responsible, and who'd pay for what, and we couldn't start till after midday. And yesterday one of their damn'd bullocks died, right in the road. Which is scarce wonder, considerin' how worn out they are. Nay, we had no accidents. The whole bleedin' trip was an accident."
"Then let's get rid of them all. Men, carts, bullocks, the lot. And hire new. Let the Shahbandar hire them for us. We pay in silver, and give him his commission, and I'm sure he'll provide us what we need."