BOOK TWO
SURAT— THE THRESHOLD
[CHAPTER FIVE]
The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno, but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.
Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined, milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would return before the day was out.
"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested the substance—tangy curds smelling faintly of spice—and his face hardened.
"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."
"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were total.