Epilogue

 

The River Indus

Pakistan, Central Asia

January, 1851

 

Hari stubbed his sandaled feet on a rusty nail protruding from the weathered deck of The Cotton Licker. Pallid smoke puffed from the tiny smokestack in erratic clouds to the beat of the little boat’s steam engine. Perched upon Hari’s shoulder, Shahin tucked her head beneath her wing. Hari plucked an errant feather from the hawk’s breast and smoothed his palm over her wings.

“Not long now, Shahin. The sun rises.”

“You talking to that bird again?” The deck wobbled under the fat boatswain’s feet. The man fiddled with the oil lamp hanging from a large iron hook hammered into the rotten plinth of wood above the door to the cabin.

“I am,” Hari stepped to one side as the boatswain staggered past him.

“They won’t let it onboard a steamerjammer. They is afeared of such, they is,” the man nodded. “Truth be told, I is afeared of such.” Taking off his shirt, he folded rolls of fat over the wooden gunwale and wet the shirt in the crest of the wave from the bow of the boat.

“Truly?” Hari lifted Shahin from his shoulder and placed the hawk on the gunwale opposite the boatswain. “Shahin is nothing more than a bird.”

“There you go again,” the boatswain wrung the water out of his shirt onto the deck of The Cotton Licker. Dirty splashes of water caught the first rays of sun before staining the deck with dark spots. “Giving it a name,” he flapped the shirt in front of him before stretching it over his belly. “Not natural. Things as is not human shouldn’t have names.”

“You have named this boat,” Hari pointed to the sign above the cabin door.

“Different, that is. This is a boat,” the boatswain tapped his temple with a stubby finger. “It don’t think.”

“No,” Hari smiled. “It does not.” Hari sat on the gunwale next to Shahin. “But neither will it come when called.”

“You can call that? And it comes?” the boatswain tugged the sleeves of his shirt down his sunburned arms.

“Yes,” Hari rubbed a finger over Shahin’s breast. The hawk nibbled at his finger.

“How far?”

“Sorry?” Hari looked up.

“How far away can you call it?” the boatswain frowned. “And how?”

“If the wind is with us,” Hari shrugged. “I don’t know. Many miles at least.”

“Show me,” the boatswain pointed at the flat plains beyond the banks of the river. The sun teased the long green grasses into burning fronds of orange.

“Oh, I am sorry. Truly I am. But Shahin is too sad to fly.”

“Sad? What nonsense is that? How can a bird be sad?”

“She has lost a loved one. A young boy,” Hari pointed towards the mountains behind them. “Dead in the mountains.”

“So she is in mourning?”

“She is in grief, yes.”

“Unnatural,” the boatswain shook his head. The man stared at Shahin for a moment. Hawking a glob of phlegm into his mouth, he spat into the Indus.

Hari fished a morsel of goat meat from the pouch at his belt. Pinching the dried meat between finger and thumb he waited for Shahin to tease it from his grip. As Shahin plucked at the meat Hari lifted the lid of a wooden chest with the bridge of his foot.

“What are these?” Hari pointed at the stack of newspapers inside the chest.

“What did you say?” the boatswain jostled Hari out of the way to take a closer look. “Bugger me. I forgot a whole stack of papers,” he scratched at the thick, red muttonchops on his sunburned cheeks. “And I thought the store master was being tight with his sovereigns.” Sliding his fingers beneath the twine and lifting the stack, the boatswain turned to face the gunwale and swung back his arm ready to pitch the papers into the river.

“What are you doing?” Hari moved out of the way.

“Well, I can’t take them back with me. Not now. I can blame the store master for short-changing me, but not if I have the bloody papers on the deck.”

“Wait,” Hari reached forward and tugged a single paper from the stack. “He moved out of the way and smiled at the boatswain. “Toss away.”

The papers splashed into the Indus, bobbing in the brown water until the water began to seep in between the printed leaves. The boatswain closed the lid of the chest and sat down on it. He looked up at Hari and frowned.

“Something caught your eye? That paper’s over a month old.”

“The woman in the photo on the front page,” Hari shrugged Shahin off his wrist and onto the wheelhouse roof. He stooped beside the boatswain and pointed at a blonde woman suffering the kiss of an oil-stained man wearing a leather cap with thick goggles pushed back on his forehead. “Is she famous?”

The boatswain tugged the paper from Hari’s hands. “That’s Beau Robshaw that is.”

“The man?” Hari tapped the photograph with two fingers. “Who is the woman?”

“Well,” the boatswain traced the text beneath the photo with his fingers. “It says it right here.”

“Yes,” Hari tapped the finger. “Luise Hanover. I can read.”

“All right. Don’t get all particular.”

“Yes,” Hari sighed. “But who is she? Is she famous?”

“He is,” the boatswain tapped the picture of the man. “He is one of those steamracers. A good one if I remember right. But who the lady is, I can’t rightly tell. That Robshaw fellow is a bit of a player if you know what I mean?” the boatswain grinned. “There’s only one lady he hasn’t had his fingers all over and that’s Romney Wallendorf, his greatest rival.”

Hari took the paper as the boatswain talked and studied the picture of Luise Hanover. Despite the smudged print and the oily hands smearing her skin, Hari could clearly see the freckles and the resemblance to her brother.

“Hanover?” The chest creaked as the boatswain pushed himself up and onto his feet. “I remember reading something about a Hanover. There’s plenty to read when doing the mail run,” he tapped the newspaper. “There’s a Hanover that has invented something or other. Might be as it was a woman. Might be that she had the first name Luise.”

“Truly?” Hari folded the paper. “Can I keep this?”

“I was going to pitch it in the river,” the boatswain shrugged.

“Thank you.” Hari opened the satchel hanging from his shoulder inside his robes. Slipping the paper inside, he walked over to the hawk and presented it with another morsel of meat.

“What’s your interest?” the boatswain shuffled behind Hari. “In the woman?”

“I know her brother,” Hari stroked Shahin’s breast.

Squinting at Hari, the boatswain spat. “Just as well. Can’t see the likes of you two meeting otherwise.” Brushing past Hari, the boatswain stepped inside the wheelhouse and steered the boat closer to the western bank of the river.

Holding out his arm for Shahin, Hari turned away from the boatswain and carried the hawk to the bow of The Cotton Licker. The sun’s rays caught the brass-plated tops of the steamjammers’ masts anchored in the deep water at the mouth of the Indus.

“There is our passage to England, Shahin,” Hari smoothed his fingers along the hawk’s wing all the way to the tip. “What perils and pleasures await us at the end of our journey, I wonder?”

The bow wave melted into the river as The Cotton Licker slowed and the boatswain nosed the little steam-powered boat into the busy stream of vessels servicing the steamjammers as they took onboard supplies, freight and passengers bound for the lush meadows of Queen Victoria’s British Isles.