Hawksworth turned back to Karim, but he was gone, swinging himself lightly over the side of the Discovery and into the pinnace.
Across the moonlight-drenched swells the Resolve lay quiet, her stern lantern reassuringly aglow, ready to hoist sail for the cove. And on the Discovery seamen were at station, poised to follow. Hawksworth looked once more toward the abandoned shore, troubled, and then dropped quickly down the side into the pinnace. There was no sound now, only the cadence of the boards as the Discovery's anchor chain argued against the tide. And then a dull thud as the mooring line dropped onto the floor planking of the pinnace.
Hawksworth ordered Mackintosh to row with the tide until they reached the shelter of the river mouth, and then to ship the oars and hoist sail if the breeze held. He had picked the ablest men as oarsmen, those not wounded and least touched by scurvy, and next to each lay a heavy cutlass. He watched Mackintosh in admiration as the quartermaster effortlessly maneuvered the tiller with one hand and directed the oarsmen with the other. The moon was even more alive now, glinting off the Scotsman's red hair.
As the hypnotic rhythm of the oars lulled Hawksworth's mind, he felt a growing tiredness begin to beg at his senses. Against his will he started to drift, to follow the moonlight's dancing, prismatic tinge on the moving crest of waves. And to puzzle over what lay ahead.
Half-dozing, he found his thoughts drawn to the Shahbandar who waited in Surat, almost like a gatekeeper who held the keys to India. He mulled Karim's words again, the hints of what would unlock that doorway, and slowly his waking mind drifted out of reach. He passed unknowing into that dreamlike state where deepest truth so often lies waiting, unknown to rationality. And there, somehow, the pilot's words made perfect sense . . .
"Permission to hoist the sail." Mackintosh cut the pinnace into the river mouth, holding to the center of the channel. Hawksworth startled momentarily at the voice, then forced himself alert and scanned the dark riverbanks. There was still nothing. He nodded to Mackintosh and watched as the sail slipped quietly up the mast. Soon the wind and tide were carrying them swiftly, silently. As he watched the run of the tide against the hull, he suddenly noticed a group of round objects, deep red, bobbing past.
"Karim." Hawksworth drew his sword and pointed toward one of the balls. "What are those?"
"A fruit of our country, Captain. The topiwallahs call them ‘coconuts.’" Karim's voice was scarcely above a whisper, and his eyes left the shore for only a moment. "They are the last remains of the August festival."
"What festival is that?"
"The celebration of the Hindu traders. Marking the end of the monsoon and the opening of the Tapti River to trade. Hindus at Surat smear coconuts with vermilion and cast them into the Tapti, believing this will appease the angry life-force of the sea. They also cover barges with flowers and span them across the harbor. If you were there, you would hear them play their music and chant songs to their heathen gods."