‘And what are you expecting us to do now? Hare off across the desert on a wild-goose chase?’ Haines is incandescent with rage when Wellsted reports to him. ‘The natives are raving. Storytelling round a campfire. And even if it’s true, Jessop and Jones are probably dead by now,’ he insists. ‘Bound to be. I’d say their guides did for them. That’s what I reckon. Jessop had instruments worth a fortune.’
The captain prefers the certainty of a blood-and-guts beheading by the savages of the ancient sea. Wellsted realises the man has been overly influenced by the fundamentalism of the Wahabis further to the north. Their threatening behaviour, all heavily armed, wild promises of doom, dark beards and flashing eyes are a jumble of aggression that has coloured the captain’s view of every Musselman in the Peninsula. Now he does not appear to grasp the difference between the tribes or at least does not apply any such knowledge to his judgements. Still, the idea of a band of renegade Dhofaris does not hold water with Wellsted if for no other reason than the guides’ bonuses for any trip are always payable on return to the coast.
‘The Dhofaris are business minded and largely liberal,’ he points out.
‘You are dismissed, Lieutenant,’ the captain snaps.
After a week waiting at Aden to no avail, it is clear that Haines is so ill-disposed towards Wellsted that the lieutenant wonders if he ought to have presented his findings as the result of an enquiry made by one of the midshipmen. He keeps his peace for whatever he says only provokes outrage. Still, the captain clearly does not feel comfortable abandoning the search entirely.
‘We will continue to Muscat,’ he announces. ‘There may be news there.’
It is, for everyone on board, a relief to cast off.
After a brief rendezvous with the Benares during which Wellsted is forbidden to attend the officers’ dinner, the sight of Muscat harbour is welcome to every soul aboard the Palinurus, and all for entirely different reasons. The truth is that in the wake of the malaria many of the crew had not anticipated making it back around the Peninsula alive and, having unexpectedly done so, they are only too delighted to be able to avail themselves of the illicit grog shop that trades from the back of one of the old warehouses down on the docks.
Wellsted, however, has not given up on the missing officers and, refusing to discuss the matter with the midshipmen, who have taken to asking him questions they ought to reserve for their commanding officer, the lieutenant obtains leave to go ashore. With the ship safely at anchor and his duties complete, Wellsted strides out from the dock and makes for the office of the Navy’s agent in Muscat, hoping that the man might have some contacts that will help in the search. Haines’ priority is to dispatch a report on a clipper that is to leave for Bombay directly but that, Wellsted cannot help thinking, is more about covering the captain in his decisions than actually finding out what happened to his men.
As he strides out, he ignores the stares a white man in naval uniform necessarily excites on the crowded streets of the capital. He ignores too the pressing heat of his well-tailored jacket as he passes through the stripes of sunshine and shade. He is not under orders but that matters little to him – he simply wants to know what has happened, not only for Jessop and Jones’ sakes, but also because it’s important to build up his knowledge of the Peninsula and how things work here. In fact, if he is to make his name, it is vital. By hook or by crook. Whatever it takes.
The agent’s office is a modest, whitewashed, two-storey house a little way up the hill and beyond the frantic press of streets that make up the dockside district. The man’s name is Ali Ibn Mudar and he has served the interests of the Indian Navy for the best part of twenty years, for which he receives a hefty retainer in addition to the proceeds of the thriving business he runs as a trader in textiles, particularly silks. These two activities dovetail well and Ibn Mudar’s ships often obtain preferential treatment when they come into contact with Indian Navy vessels. Ibn Mudar speaks perfect English. He has, it is rumoured, a European wife, captured from a shipwreck some years before and bought at an astronomical price for his harim. This lady has never been seen in public and no one knows if the rumours are true, but if it is she who has tutored Ibn Mudar in what can only be assumed is her native tongue, she has done a good job; he speaks English, somewhat comically though, with a heavy Irish accent. For this reason he is known in Bombay, exclusively behind his back, as Mickey Ibn Mudar or Our Dear Mickey. That notwithstanding, the agent is considered well-connected, helpful and courteous, and although Wellsted has never met him before, he has high hopes as he knocks on the sun-bleached front door and waits.
Inside, he is shown into a cool, tiled courtyard by a young slave boy in a robe as yellow as a canary, his eyelashes so long that they could dust the ceilings of their cobwebs. The boy offers Wellsted a copper bowl of cool water and rose petals in which to make his ablutions. He does so noticing how much better he feels only a little way out of the oppressive heat. Then, courteously, the slave ushers him upstairs and Ibn Mudar welcomes the young lieutenant into his office on the first floor. The slatted wooden shutters keep the room shady and warmed by the sun, and also give out a pleasant aroma of sandalwood. Between the slats and cut-out stars there are glimpses of an impressive view over the bay. To one side there is a large, cedarwood desk with scrolls of accounts and ledgers stored behind it on a series of intricately carved, wooden shelves and burr cubby holes. On the other side there is a comfortable seating area with low, embroidered cushions and goatskin throws. This is not the agent’s home, however. That is far grander and much higher up the hill. He prefers to keep his working life separate, always has.
As the man smiles and rises to greet his visitor, Wellsted quickly notes that Ibn Mudar’s plain jubbah is made of very fine cotton – curiously unshowy given that the main part of his income comes from a textile business. The lieutenant considers mentioning his own family’s background in the same trade but deems it inappropriate. Instead, he sizes up the Navy’s agent silently. Ibn Mudar, with a greying beard, in his mid-fifties, is only slightly overweight and his eyes seem to take in everything and give nothing away. He clears his throat to make his salaams, but he does not invoke Allah. The custom in this office is the same as it would be in Liverpool or Southampton so the Navy’s representative reaches out to shake Wellsted firmly by the hand and smiles.
‘How do you do? I was to send to the ship shortly, you know. Would you partake of a coffee, Lieutenant?’
Wellsted does not laugh, though not to do so is an effort. The man’s accent is as thick as treacle. He might as well be from Cork. ‘Thank you. I would enjoy a coffee.’
The agent waves a hand and his slave disappears to fetch what is needed as the men sit down together on the pile of cushions on the floor. Wellsted likes him immediately. There is something cut and dried about this man and competent too. Our Dear Mickey feels like an apt moniker.
‘You have come for your letter from London, have you?’ Mickey says.
Wellsted starts. He has, in his whole time in the service, never received a personal letter. It is an amazement that such an item has found him here.
‘From London?’ he repeats, the shock showing in his voice.
His heart races with the realisation that this could be a momentous turn of events – is it possible that Murray has already responded to his manuscript? Surely it will take longer than this, but then who knows the ways of the famous publisher? It has, he counts the weeks, probably been long enough. With surprise, he notes that his palm feels suddenly sticky and his stomach flutters nervously.
Mickey reaches into a large, burnished box beside his cushion and passes a folded envelope franked in Mayfair. Wellsted breaks the small, red seal. Inside, the handwriting is haphazard – not what he would expect from a man of Murray’s education and renown. Wellsted takes a deep breath, comprehending that this missive is even more momentous than one that might contain John Murray’s comments on his account of the Socotra trip. This letter has emanated from his family home in Molyneux Street and is dated in May – two months ago.
Dear Brother,
I