Chapter VII: Are We the Bad Guys?
The sloop Pera had been given the honor of escorting my army to Ceylon. We couldn’t afford to provide more transports, so we had to avoid any Mughal Empire navy patrols that may have slipped past the Indian Squadron. The transports carrying the four regiments were armed with cannon, but were slow and burdensome. If a well-armed fleet caught us, we were dead in the water.
The journey was rough for the men of the Caribbean. They were used to the gentle waves of the beaches of their native islands, islands where they had spent their entire lives on. It wasn’t an easy life, but it was much calmer than this. Storm after storm raged against us and we buckled down. I lost almost a dozen men to these storms, men who would never see their wives and children ever again.
The Pera drove off a couple of Mughal privateers, small ships tasked with raiding our trade routes, that tried to take advantage of our armament. The Pera’s captain was a very smart man who happened to know about the legend of Captain Kidd, which we spoke at some length about.
Finally, after almost three months at sea, we arrived in Ceylon. The island never looked more beautiful, even though this was the first time I had ever seen it. The port, Colombo, was home to the Indian Squadron, which was commanded by Rear Admiral Graves. He greeted me with a salute and a firm handshake.
“Welcome to India!” he said happily, as his sailors and my soldiers began to unload the ships. “The Mughals have blockaded the only Maratha port where our trade goes to, the Mysore is being a pain in my arse, and the Maratha Confederacy apparently doesn’t know how to fight a war.”
“Has it really been that bad?” I asked.
“No, but we have had orders from General Coster not to move until reinforcements arrived. A single sloop and four regiments? Ain’t bad, ain’t bad at all. We need all the help we can get and it looks like you’re it!” he almost yelled into my ear. “Besides, you all need a tan anyway! You look white as rice!”
“Are you mad?” I asked, not realizing what I just said. He laughed and so did a couple of nearby sailors.
“They don’t call him Brave Graves for no reason sir!” a dark-skinned Indian sailor said to me proudly. I blinked, not realizing that this was India. Sure we used native troops in the Caribbean, but they weren’t in the Navy nor were they in our main armies. They were scouts and that was pretty much it. But in India, we used sepoys, men who fought in line and besides our men, who were loyal to the Dutch flag.
It was different. That’s all I had to say. I had yet to see their mettle in battle and that’s where I would let my judgment rest.
“He’s barking mad...and we love him for it!” said the captain of one of the sloops. The Pera’s captain and I exchanged glances, not knowing what in God’s name we got into.
As we walked further into the port, regiments of Indians and white Dutch soldiers marched past us. Some of them were dressed in different uniforms and strangely shaped hats. A few of them were on horseback, riding tall above the rest. Sabers were plainly seen and they wore the strange hats like some of the other ones.
Graves looked at my puzzled expression and quickly surmised why I was looking like that.
“VOC mercenaries. They sent a couple of regiments here to ‘look after their interests.’ Bloody expensive to pay, but they’re the only cavalry and hard-hitting infantry we got. Sepoys are good and all, but nobody fights like a VOC mercenary,” Graves gleefully explained to me, laughing all the way.
God, please send me back to the Caribbean, I prayed, hoping he would hear my prayers. He probably wouldn’t, as he had more important things to do than listen to some general who had won one victory over a pirate militia. Why Amsterdam thought sending me was a good idea was beyond my comprehension.
General Joord Coster was a rather portly man in his forties, his wig out of shape, and his uniform not pressed correctly. His bodyguard was immaculate, unlike my own, who were still recovering from the long sea ordeal and their horses still braying over being stuck in the cargo hold for two months.
“General Van Durzen!” he greeted and I snapped a salute, which he returned lazily. “It is good to see you finally here. How was the journey?”
“Fine sir. When do we depart for India proper?” I asked.
“Soon. One week, to allow your men proper rest and care. The Mughals have been beaten back from the Maratha capital, but we need to remove their navy maintaining a blockade around their port, to allow trade to flow back in. That’s where Admiral Graves comes into play. The Persians tried to destroy our fleet, but we beat them back. So rest for now, until the fleet has done the job we need it to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can sense your apprehension, Joost. Relax, for now. The war will come. You must allow it.”
As I left with my men, I was uneasy. I turned to see Admiral Graves waiting for me right outside of the inn I was staying in until our departure to a place known as Ahmadnagar, a town north of the Maratha capital of Satana.
“So I guess this is where we depart from each other!” he said madly and he slapped me on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back just in time to escort your sorry arse to India.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Of course you can!”
He left with another laugh. I went into the inn and went to the desk where I started composing a letter to my wife.
“God help me.”
“God won’t help you.”
I turned.
Oh, you’re right about that. Standing there was the only person who could put the fear of God in me besides the priest when he started to preach at Sunday Mass.
My wife of five years stood in the doorway, tapping her foot.
“Francisca.”