Chapter 12
A SHORT TALE OF SAMUT KOTE

When the get-together at Phaulkon’s house ended, Burnaby and White retired to their own quarters. Phaulkon saw them to the door. The guard outside, who had been dozing, jumped to his feet and bowed. Phaulkon locked the door and then dragged himself to his bedroom. He slipped off his clothes and stepped into the wash stall. Taking a coconut shell dipper from the wall he doused himself with water from the elephant jar and gave a sigh of relief Home at last! He replaced the dipper on its rack, dried off and put on a robe. He started toward his bed, to get some much needed rest. The window in his bedroom was open and he glanced out across the way to Fanique’s house in the Portuguese quarter. The lane was dimly lighted by oil lamps that flickered casting a mosaic in patches of light upon the buildings and trees that lined the lane. At the far end of the lane he thought he saw movement. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was someone there. Two men were walking briskly down the lane. When they drew closer, he saw that they were young men. He recognized them. They were from the palace-Marie’s suitors-and had been at Fanique’s house when he saw them presenting gifts to Marie. The younger of the two was the suitor who had read poetry to her. They were back but Sorasak was not with them. They stopped at Fanique’s door and knocked. Presently the door opened and the two boys entered. Through a window that opened onto the lane, Phaulkon could see lights go on in the inner courtyard. He was mildly disturbed. Young men from the court visiting Marie when it should be him. At least Sorasak wasn’t with them, he reasoned, easing his discontent a bit. He lay down on his bed but he could not sleep. He was tired from the long trip up the river but sleep was impossible. His thoughts were about Marie and the two suitors.

After tossing and turning and unable to sleep, he got out of bed. Perhaps he could find out what was happening at Fanique’s. He put on a shirt, slipped into his trousers, and as quietly as possible, in his bare feet, went to the front door. Through an observation slit in the door he looked out. The guard was asleep on the bench. He slid back the bolt on the door and opened it enough to squeeze by. He quietly dosed the door behind him and stepped out into the lane. It was empty. Gingerly, so as not to be seen, he crossed to the other side, and following along the ridge of buildings, he ducked into the shadows beneath the courtyard window at Fanique’s house. He could hear voices from within, and ever so slowly drew himself up to where he could peer into the courtyard without being seen. Marie was sitting on a couch with her maid at her side. The two young men stood facing them, both trying to speak at the same time. It was nearly comical to watch them, each trying to outdo the other while doting over her. The maid seemed amused.

Marie was asking about life in the palace. “Is it true no one can look upon the face of the king?”

The boys nodded.

Marie then asked, “Does that mean no one in the palace can look upon him either?”

“No, it is much different inside the palace,” the first suitor said.

“We live in the golden age of literature,” the second suitor, the boy who recited poetry, spoke up. “The king loves poetry, and music. Each evening he forms a circle around him, poets, musicians, court dancers and performers. They recite poetry together, and they make up verses and songs. His queen was a poet too. Even the palace gatekeeper speaks in poetry.”

Marie asked about his court and his other wives. “He has no other wives,” the first suitor added. “He lives in the memory of his beloved wife who died giving birth, and there are no others. He lives with his daughter and sister and young adopted son. He loves his daughter very much and protects her. She is a lovely princess.”

“A princess,” Marie exclaimed in wonder. “I always wanted to be a princess.”

Phaulkon pressed his ear harder against the windowsill. He wanted desperately to hear what she had to say.

”And the princesses in the palace,” Marie continued, “do they live the beautiful life that we hear so much about, like the story of Samut Kote?”

“So you like the story of Samut Kote?” the first suitor asked. “Yes, but I can’t remember why, except that it was very romantic, and Samut Kote was very brave,” Marie said. “Tell me the story again. I would like to hear it from you.”

The poet suitor, pleased at the request, began telling the story of Samut Kote with the second suitor giving animation to the tale by jumping about, waving his arms and mimicking like an actor on stage. The poet told how Samut Kote went into the forest to hunt for elephants, and the gods led him to meet Princess Pintumavadi with whom he fell in love, and she in turn fell in love with him. The poet then raised his voice and holding his arms across his face as though to protect himself said, ”And then an evil, wicked god kidnapped Samut Kote while he was asleep. When he awoke, the princess was gone. He desperately looked for her everywhere but it seemed hopeless. The god of heaven, seeing the princess crying and miserable, took pity her and helped her find Prince Samut Kote, The god of heaven overcame the wicked god that had kidnapped Samut Kote and freed the prince. The two are joined together in marriage. End of story, and everyone was happy.”

Marie sighed with content.

“But alas,” the poet shouted and raised up to his feet, “that is not the end.”

Marie gasped. “It’s not?” she cried.

“No, not at all,” the suitor said. “You see, the other princes are jealous of Samut Kote and battle with him. But he has a magic sword, which he got from a wounded magician who he helped cure, and is able to defeat them all.”

“Then what happens?” asked Marie.

“The two lovers are in the forest and come upon a river spanned by two logs,” the poet continued. Phaulkon outside the window edged closer. “They start across, each on a separate log, but the logs drift apart, and the princess is separated from her husband once again. She searches and searches but cannot find him. In great sadness and grief, and feeling defeated, she dropped out of society and became a nun. Artists painted her life story on the walls of the monastery for all to see. Meanwhile, Prince Samut continued to wander, relentlessly, for many, many years in search for his loving wife, refusing to give up.” The poet’s voice became more and more convincing as he spoke. He continued: “One day Prince Samut came to a monastery where a crowd was looking at a painting on a wall. He pushed through the crowd and was astonished at what he found. He recognized the drawing at once. Without hesitating, like a steed that has lost its rider, he dashed into the monastery, and there found his lost love. At last, with great joy and happiness, the two were reunited never to be parted again.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. “Marie, are those tears in your eyes that I see?” the poet suitor asked.

She wiped away the tears. “When I marry my prince one day,” she began, speaking softly and in earnest, “I will never, never be parted from him. No man, not even kings and gods, not even death, will ever part us. That I will promise you.”

Phaulkon leaned closer and closer, not caring now if he was detected, and then heard her ask, “Do you think I will be a princess one day?”

“You already are,” said the first suitor. “You may not have the blood of a princess, but you surely have the heart of one.”

“I know a man who does not have the blood of a prince,” she said, lamenting the thought, “but he does have the soul of a king. But-” she sighed, loud enough for Phaulkon to hear- “he thinks that I am too young.” There was a long pause, and finally she said: “Oh, what does he wait for? Certainly he must know how I feel. He must.”

The poet suitor asked, “This man you speak about, you say he has the soul of a king, but why him above all others? Why is he so special?”

Had Phaulkon gotten any closer to those talking in the courtyard, he would have fallen through the window. He listened, asking himself who was this man that Marie loved so much?

“He is gallant and brave,” he heard Marie say. Phaulkon felt the beating of his heart might give him away. Who was this gallant man she spoke of?

“And how is that, that he is so brave?” the first suitor asked. “Does he fight the evil dragon and demons of the forest?”

“Oh, no, not that,” Marie cried. “Bur he is the only man I know who has been brave enough to stand up to my father.”

Phaulkon no longer cared if he fell off his perch. Were his ears deceiving him? Was she referring to him?

“Oh, that’s a relief,” the poet suitor replied. “Then he cannot be Prince Sorasak, this man you are talking about?”

“Sorasak,” she replied in dismay. “No, not at all, not Sorasak.” “Not Sorasak. But why?” the first suitor asked. “Is he not a prince?” He didn’t wait for Marie to answer. “Sorasak does have the blood of a prince, that is true, and perhaps he may not have the soul to be a king. Still, he would fight dragons in the forest, and he trains elephants.”

“What do you mean, he has the blood of a prince?” Marie asked. “His father is a general, not a king.”

“Is that what you think?” the first suitor asked.

“Be quiet,” the poet suitor said. “We are forbidden to discuss such matters.”

“Discuss what matters?” Marie asked again.

The first suitor explained what he meant, at the objection of the poet. “Sorasak is only an adopted son of the general,” he said. “His real father is King Narai himself who had an affair with a princess in Chiang Mai during the time when he and the general conquered Chiang Mai more than twenty years ago. He was too embarrassed to let it be known. He gave the boy to his General to raise.”

“We don’t really know if it’s true,” the poet interrupted in a hushed voice, a voice that Phaulkon could hardly hear. “It could just be a rumor, but then Sorasak gets away with things only a spoiled prince can do.”

“You know it’s true,” the first suitor said. “We just don’t talk about it.”

The conversation stopped abruptly. Fanique’s voice rang through the courtyard, calling for his daughter.

“In a minute,” she replied to her father. Then to her suitors she said, “I wouldn’t marry Sorasak if he was the last prince on earth!” The suitors expressed their delight to hear that Sorasak was out of the picture, and the poet suitor asked, “Then tell me, who is this man who does not have the blood of a prince but has the soul of a king. Perhaps it is me. Then you shall marry me one day.” He got down on his knees and spread out his arms. Even from where Phaulkon hid, he could see the smile upon his face.

Marie replied with laughter in her voice, “That would not be possible,” she said. “You see, you are very special, and a fine poet, but I could never marry you. You are not a Catholic.”

Fanique called again to his daughter as he stepped into the courtyard. Seeing the suitors there he reminded them it was late and time for them to leave. The suitors thanked Fanique for his kindness, and as they were about to leave, the poet quietly asked Marie, so her father couldn’t hear, “This man, is he a Catholic?”

The expression on Marie’s face changed, and she dared not answer, as if she had been reminded of an impossible dream. All she could do was smile, a beguiling smile. She waved good-bye to her suitors from her window. Phaulkon glanced through the window once more before he departed and there he saw her in the courtyard, with her father at her side, holding with one hand the sapphire necklace around her neck.

The guard was still asleep when Phaulkon sneaked back into his house. Later, in the quietness of his room, he pondered the question whether is it better to know, the night before your execution, that someone loves you, or is it better not to know at all?

Chapter 11B
Counter-Defense

While they were still in custody in Ligor, word reached Abu Umar in Ayutthaya about the shipwreck and the capture of Phaulkon and his crew. Abu was certain they would be beheaded and when he learned to the contrary that they were being sent to Ayutthaya, he was appalled. This was not what he wanted to hear. He immediately ran to Burnaby and White. “He was going to set fire to the ship,” Abu ranted. “What could I do! Phaulkon blackmailed me into telling him that you supplied arms and to the rebels.”

“You what!” screamed White. In an instant he drew his dagger and was about to plunge it into Abu Umar but Burnaby grabbed him by both arms. White continued his harangue. “I ought to cut your liver out.”

Abu quickly gathered his composure. “Kill me if you will, and then you will both go down. Phaulkon is on his way back here. If I go down, you both will go down with me. Instead of threatening to kill me, I think you had better give thought to protecting me. I am the only one who can get you out of this.

Killing Abu, of course, would only compound the matter. They had to be there when the ship arrived and to meet Phaulkon and his crew. That was certain. They could confer with Phaulkon before he went to the Governor’s office and decide beforehand what course of action to follow. They made the bad mistake of underestimating Phaulkon, their own creation.

White and Burnaby were there when the ship arrived with Phaulkon and his men aboard. It was an awkward meeting but they all managed to show civility to one another and spoke kindly among themselves. Burnaby had a letter from the Barcalon that he presented to the officer-in-charge. It stated Phaulkon was at liberty to remain in his own quarters.

“You will be under guard, of course, until the matter is settled,” Burnaby announced with authority. “The Governor says he will take up the matter with the Barcalon and will have a hearing with everyone involved as soon as possible.”

”And my two men?” Phaulkon asked. “What about them?” “There is nothing more I could do about them,” Burnaby said.

“They must go to the lock up for now.” Four guards with leather collars and thongs circled the two men and began gruffly to push them about.

Phaulkon came to their defense and stood with them. “If they go to prison I will go with them,” he shouted to the guard in charge, and then to Burnaby and to White, “I mean it.”

Diego interceded. “No master,” he said. “You will do none of us good if you are locked away. Christoph and I can manage by ourselves.’

“No, Diego. They can go to hell, all of them,” Phaulkon said in earnest.

“Master,” Christoph spoke up, “don’t you remember, there is no hell.”

For the first time Phaulkon smiled. “I thought you had said that,” he said to Diego, and put an arm around them both. “Go then,” he said, “and I won’t forget you.”

Phaulkon and the guard followed White and Burnaby through the streets to Phaulkon’s quarters. No further words were passed among them. They walked in silence and the only sound came from water rushing through the klongs as they crossed over the foot bridges. Once they arrived at Phaulkon’s home, the guard took a position outside the door and they entered. Phaulkon dismissed his servants and they were alone to continue their discussions.

When White made certain the apartment was empty, he said, “Now we can talk.”

Burnaby nodded in agreement.

“Do you mean you will do the talking,” Phaulkon laughed. “You make it sound like you already have it figured out.”

“We have worked out a course,” White said.

”And what might that be?” Phaulkon asked.

“We are all somewhat in trouble,” White began. “We will all agree to that.” Phaulkon nodded. “Then we can proceed. We got you into Siam, and we can get you out.”

“Get me out! Is that what you propose?” Phaulkon asked bluntly. “Yes, precisely,” White said. Burnaby suddenly turned pale. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He felt for his kerchief but couldn’t find it.

”Am I not still in the service of the East India Company? Does that not mean anything?” Phaulkon asked.

“Come off it, Gerakis, you are a smuggler like the rest of us,” White said. It was the first time he called him by his Greek name. “We are offering you a chance to get out of this.”

“The name is Phaulkon, or don’t you remember,” Phaulkon said sharply. “I do believe you are both sincere. Most noble. You want to save my skin, or should I say my head. I do applaud you. Now-” He rose to his feet and looked down at them. Burnaby slithered farther back in his seat. “Now, gentlemen, you both can go to hell. You hear-to hell. You sacrifice me to save yourselves. You are most generous. And may they take off all of our heads tomorrow.”

“Phaulkon, I think you had better listen to reason,” White said. Burnaby began to tremble.

“Listen to reason,” Phaulkon said in mockery. “So I am a smuggler, and how can I deny that. And so are the both of you, smugglers, and you cannot deny that either.” He hesitated, waiting for them to object, but they didn’t, and he went on. ”A smuggler yes. That’s what you are saying. But a traitor no, never, not to the country that opened its doors to me, a country that has given me a chance. So, my honorable, trustworthy friends, don’t ever begin to accuse me of being a traitor. Don’t ever do that.” Both White and Burnaby were a bit dumbfounded. They had never seen Phaulkon like this.

Still, White fired back and reminded Phaulkon again how he and Burnaby had smuggled him back into Siam, and that he should stop talking about Siam opening its doors to him. “We opened the doors for you, not them,” he shouted.

“I am grateful for what you have done,” Phaulkon replied. “You made it possible for me. But once I got to Siam I didn’t sit and wait for things to happen. I made things happen. I saw an opening, an opportunity and I took it. Now you want me to give up what I have. You think you can save me. The truth is you cannot save me, not at all. It comes down to a matter of trust. I have to put my trust into something, into someone. I don’t want to keep running. I have been doing that since I was twelve.”

White listened but didn’t agree. He continued his outrage:

“Trust! Who do you trust? Damn them. Damn them all. They’re all the same, Siamese, Burmese, Malays, rebels, Moors, Muslims- heathens all. Let them all kill one another! Who gives a damn?”

Phaulkon replied in anger, “Well, it’s not their judgment day, is it? It’s our heads we’re talking about. We could all lose our heads tomorrow. “

They started squabbling again, but lowered their voices when the guard looked in upon them. In a whisper, White said, “Phaulkon, we are here to discuss your defense. You have a chance.”

“How’s that, by helping me escape?” Phaulkon barked. “You’d like that. And who will shoot me in the back while trying to escape?” “Don’t you understand, we are your defense,” White said softening his voice.

“Now you listen,” Phaulkon said. “My defense is your defense too.” Before they could further protest, he continued. “At the trial, do you think by selling you out, by pointing a finger at you, that I’d save my own skin? I am not a fool. They’d execute me anyway.”

“So what do we do, sit idly by and listen to you make a fool of yourself?” White asked.

“It’s too late to change my defense now,” Phaulkon said sternly.

“I have already told the Governor in Ligor my own story.” He looked squarely at the two men sitting on edge before him. “Now gentlemen,” he continued, “if I can call you that, all you have to do is stay calm and play this game my way, and then everything will be fine.”

There was no more that anyone could say. White and Burnaby departed.

Chapter 11A
ARMS FOR THE REBELS

Among the documents given to Phaulkon by Abu Umar was a navigation chart-Golfe de Siam, by French engineer M. La Mare. Someone, perhaps George White, had drawn the course which they were to follow. Phaulkon was surprised how remarkably accurate and detailed the French had charted the area. France was obviously focusing her attention on Indochina and Siam, and Phaulkon now wondered if the French might be involved in arming the rebels. He noted their destination-Point of Ligor. It was not far from where the French had built their fort in Songkau. Phaulkon followed their course on the chart. They passed “Pulo Sengor Isle” and “Pulo Gorman Isle” well to their starboard, and it was when they neared Point of Ligor that the storm broke. It was a sudden outburst. The winds and seas seemed to materialize out of nowhere. It just happened, without warning. Phaulkon knew that the seas in the Gulf of Siam and the Malay coast were notorious for sudden storms, for the ocean bottom was shallow and tremendous waves could suddenly build up. But he never expected a storm to happen as rapidly as this one did. The old ship with it heavy cargo was not fit for such violence. Almost instantly her seams began to open up and water started to pour in. Their ship was doomed.

Phaulkon, of course, could have made a more noble effort to save the stricken vessel, but he didn’t. When the crew grew tired and stopped working the pumps, he didn’t admonish them. When the water began to rise in the bilge, he could have had the men turn to with buckets and begin to bail, but he let it rise. It was almost as though he had planned for the storm to happen. Even before they began to ship in water, he had the crew start emptying the gunpowder barrels, and with boards from the broken crates he had them fashion two rafts. Even before the ship went down, they climbed aboard. Instead of being distraught from the loss of the ship, Phaulkon seemed relieved. Like a sinner absolved from his sins, he was exonerated from his crime of smuggling arms to the enemy.

When dawn broke the storm had passed. There was no land in sight, only the scattered wreckage of the ship over the face of the ocean, rising and falling with the ocean swells .. They were farther from land than they thought. Phaulkon along with Diego and Christoph had boarded one raft and the Arabs boarded the other. In the blackness of night Phaulkon could hear the Arabs arguing among themselves, and panic followed. They began paddling, but not knowing the direction of land. When dawn came their raft was nowhere in sight. The vast ocean had swallowed them up. Phaulkon had called out to them that they were wasting their energy but they didn’t hear him. Perhaps, even if they had, they would not have paid heed to his advice. In any event, when the sun rose, they were gone.

Phaulkon judged by the motion of the sea that the current was carrying them toward land, and again he hoped it would take them into Siamese territory. Only time would tell, and they had plenty of that.

For two days they were at the mercy of an unrelenting sun beating down upon them. Without cover, nor a drop of water to drink, they blistered in the heat. Their lips cracked like the bark on a gum tree; their tongues turned into leather. To talk was an effort. They became delirious. Phaulkon listened quietly, in a daze himself, to Christoph uttering to Diego about dying and the afterlife. “They are sending us to hell,” Christoph mumbled.

“Who is sending us?” Diego asked.

“They are. They are sending us to hell,” he repeated, not making any sense.

Diego replied. “There is no hell, I tell you, The Holy Book says there is no hell.”

“Holy Book! Holy Book!” Christoph lamented. “Death is death.

Isn’t it better to go down fighting than to die a slow death as this.” He was quiet a moment and then spoke up. “Per chance there is a hell. Let’s hope. Then at least we’ll all be together.”

“No, we will all be together but it will be here on earth,” Diego insisted, not finding Christoph’s comment humorous. “I tell you we will be back here on the earth. The old man showed us the book, but no hell. The Holy Book doesn’t teach such a thing.”

“What about the padres,” Christoph said, “they read the Holy Book and they say there’s a hell.”

“Are you saying you trust them more than me, your good friend.”

“I am not saying that,” Christoph answered. “Yes you did.”

And so it went, into the night of the second day.

None of them were awake when the surf dumped them on to the beach. They lay there in the sand, lifeless bodies, and awoke only when the light of dawn came, and when Siamese soldiers gave them water to drink. The soldiers at first were friendly, however, they were not too pleased when they discovered the survivors’ raft had been constructed from empty barrels. They knew instantly the barrels were powder kegs. The shipwrecked sailors were smugglers. They hurriedly marched them to the office of the Governor of Ligor.

”And what do we have here,” the Governor said when he saw the men. “Gun runners and smugglers. Where are the guns?”

“They went down with the ship,” Phaulkon said, addressing the Governor and his officers in Malay.

The Governor, who had been sitting, stood and rose up to his full height. He smiled, a smile of victory. “Smuggling,” he said, “arming the Muslims, a crime punishable by a hundred deaths.” He motioned for the guards with their lances to come forth.

Diego and Christoph were aghast. They could not for the world of them understand why Phaulkon admitted that they were carrying guns. There was no proof that they had been. Now Phaulkon admitted to the crime. Had the sun gotten to him? When they looked over at Phaulkon, he grinned at them. He then did the most unexpected thing. He addressed the Governor and his officers in high Siamese, the language of the royal court. Diego and Christoph looked at him beyond belief now. Was this their master talking.

“I am here on a mission,” he said. His voice, and the manner in which he spoke, baffled the Governor. He and his officers could do little more than stand there looking at the three prisoners. They remained mum. The Governor, of course, did not want to admit that he couldn’t fully understand Phaulkon when he spoke in high Siamese. Sensing this, and not wanting to embarrass him and do further harm, Phaulkon now spoke to him in local Siamese. “Perhaps I should address you in Tai,” he said, “so that your men will understand.” The tension passed. “As I said,” Phaulkon continued, “we are here on a mission.” They listened now as Phaulkon explained their circumstances.

He announced he was taking full responsibility, admitting he was the captain of the ship, and he asked the Governor to release him and his crew. The Governor was dumbfounded. Who is this foreigner who speaks in such elegant Siamese? He questioned Phaulkon further.

Phaulkon remained calm, surprising even his own men. In a strong and clear voice, he explained that what had happened was exactly the opposite of what the Governor might think. He told that he and his men were working for an organization of foreign traders who are concerned about the rebel activities in the kingdom that threatens the trade industry. His orders were to be kept secret, but since the mission ended the way it did, he feel compelled to divulge the truth of the matter. He was delivering cargo from Ayutthaya to various towns down south. His mission was to arm the Siamese for a surprise attack against the Muslim rebels in Songkau. Phaulkon also told the Governor he had information that the Dutch were arming the rebels.

The Governor did not know what to say nor what to do. As the governor of a Siamese province, his chief duty was tax collecting for the king. He questioned Phaulkon further but he could not get him to change his story. Not wanting to accept the grave responsibility of making a decision as what to do with Phaulkon and his men, he announced he would send them back to Ayutthaya, under guard. He further made it clear that the Governor of Ayutthaya would receive the full report.

Chapter 10B
Resistance

Fanique exploded in a rage of fury. In two short leaps he closed the distance between him and Phaulkon, and with his sword raised above his head, he brought it down in a sweeping cut. At the same instant, Marie cried out for him to stop. The servants gasped in disbelief. Phaulkon stood immobile as a statue. He neither moved nor flinched. In a terrifying scream, Fanique stopped the downward thrust of his sword a hair’s distance above Phaulkon’s head. The cutting edge was a breath away from split ting Phaulkon skull in two.

Phaulkon’s defiance angered Fanique even more, and he might have taken another cut at Phaulkon, this time not stopping, had Marie not rushed up and stood between them. She pleaded, begging for him to stop.

Fanique shouted again. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Marie attempted to calm him down, at which he called for her to leave the room.

“No,” Phaulkon said, “stay here to listen to this.”

“This is my house,” Fatigue shouted, “and I give the orders here!” He called for the servants to take Marie away. They responded, taking Marie by both arms.

As they began dragging her across the room, Phaulkon shouted to them to stop. They hesitated for a moment giving Phaulkon time to remove the leather pouch from his pocket. He quickly pulled at the string to open it, and with all eyes upon him, he placed the necklace on a table in the middle of the room and stuffed the pouch back into his pocket. Everyone in the room, Fanique, Marie, the four servants, all froze in dismay, dazzled by the beauty of the necklace. Phaulkon then announced to Fanique, and for all to hear, that he will marry Marie.

“You are mad,” Fanique shouted at him. “You are mad. You will never marry my daughter, never. You understand. I have prepared her for better things in life than the likes of you.”

“The likes of me!” Phaulkon cried out. “And who are you to tell me this? Are you no more than a pirate yourself, no more than a black marketeer.” Phaulkon waved his arm above his head, like he was swinging a sword in mockery of Fanique. “If a pirate is good enough to be Marie’s father, then why not a pirate for her husband. She will be my wife one day.”

Fanique threw the final blow. He lowered his sword. “My daughter will never marry a non-Catholic. Do you hear that?” he said and pointed to the door for Phaulkon to leave.

In anger, Phaulkon headed for the door. Marie called to him to wait, and when he turned in her direction he saw her rush up to the table and grab hold of the necklace. She took it in both hands and held it against her breasts.

Phaulkon headed straight to Abu Umar’s shop. He had his strategy worked out. He wouldn’t tell Abu that he had already given the necklace to Marie. He would agree to deliver the shipment under one condition: the jewels would be the down payment and a cash settlement equal to the cost of the jewels had to be made upon completion of the delivery.

“You drive much too hard a bargain,” Abu said after hearing the proposal.

“It’s your decision,” Phaulkon said and withdrew the empty leather pouch from his pocket.

“No, no, agreed,” snapped Abu. “The shipment will be prepared by tomorrow night.” Phaulkon slipped the pouch back into his pocket. He was in his delight. He had no idea of his cargo or the danger involved but the thought of pleasing Marie reigned higher than anything else.

That night Phaulkon sent a message to Diego and Christoph for them to come to him at once. It was near dawn when they arrived. Phaulkon explained to his two friends that he was making a delivery of contraband goods to Songkau and he didn’t trust the Arab merchant. He asked if the two men would accompany him. Diego and Christoph looked at him in amazement. “You don’t know,” Diego said.

“Know what?” Phaulkon asked.

“Arab Muslims at Songkau are rebelling against the Siamese for independence,” Diego said. “They need arms. That’s what they are waiting for.”

Phaulkon could feel his blood run thin. Could the cargo be a shipment of arms, arms against the Siamese and their king? “It can’t be,” he said, refusing to believe it. “Where would this Arab merchant get arms?”

The three men racked their brains for answers but could find none. They knew of no one who might supply the rebels with arms. There was but one way to find out. Diego and Christoph would come aboard just before they sailed. They would check the cargo and then they would know. Before Diego and Christoph departed, Phaulkon asked them if they could find out who the rebel leader might be. “We will do our best,” Christoph said and they silently slipped away into the darkness.

Phaulkon had been instructed by Abu to come to the dock at midnight to take command. Phaulkon arrived an hour before midnight, and with him was Diego and Christoph. Four Arab Muslims crew members were aboard guarding the ship. They said the cargo had been loaded and was in the hold. Phaulkon said he wanted to check it but the men protested and blocked his entrance to the hatch. Phaulkon gave the signal and Diego and Christoph appeared at his side with drawn daggers. Phaulkon ordered the men to step aside. In Malay he told them he was their captain. They had no alternative and they let the three men pass. But Phaulkon knew they would summon help, and maybe even Abu himself.

Diego and Christoph were right. The cargo was arms. They broke open two wooden crates to find muzzle loading muskets and dozens of barrels of gunpowder. There were as many as a hundred crates, enough arms to supply a small army. Phaulkon realized it was too late for him to change his mind. His name would be on the manifest making him an accomplice even before he started. Besides, Marie already had the jewels. He could hardly take them back. There was still a question unanswered. Where did Abu Umar, an Arab merchant, get the arms and supplies? Who supplied him? The three men closely checked the crates. Phaulkon couldn’t believe what they saw. They recognized the East India Company markings.

Phaulkon called for one of the Arabs to come below deck, and when one did, Phaulkon grabbed the henchmen and, pressing a dagger under his chin, shouted at him to go fetch his boss or else Phaulkon would set fire to the ship. He didn’t have to wait long. Abu Umar appeared and Phaulkon and Diego ran topside to meet him. Abu was trembling, and instantly began pleading for Phaulkon not to set fire to the ship. Phaulkon then demanded that unless Abu disclose where he got the cargo, the deal was off. He reached into his bag, and said he would give back the jewels that instant. In panic, Abu Umar told Phaulkon that his bosses were Richard Burnaby and George White. They were the culprits, smuggling arms and ammunition to the rebels.

The words came as a hard blow to Phaulkon. He could understand White’s motives, an interloper, but Burnaby was an employee of the EIC.

”And who are these rebels?” Phaulkon asked.

“I do not know. I swear I don’t,” Abu said. “I only make deliveries.”

Before he could say more, Diego pulled Phaulkon aside and led him below deck where they wouldn’t be heard. “We already found out,” Diego whispered. “It’s a Makassar. He goes by the name Mosafat.”

Had Phaulkon not been sitting on a broken crate of arms he might have fallen over. “I think I know him,” he said. “If he’s who I think he is, we met when Samuel White smuggled me across the isthmus. If he is the one, he and his band can be dangerous, but if need be we can deal with them.” He thought for a moment. “What worries me is the Arab crew aboard. We can’t trust them. Once we deliver the cargo, if we deliver it at all, they might well murder the three of us.”

Abu Umar came down the hatch, said nothing when he saw the broken crates, and announced it was getting late. They had to hurry. He handed Phaulkon the port clearance papers. “In case you get stopped, they will let you pass. You are with the EIC.” His next statement confirmed Phaulkon’s suspicion. When Phaulkon announced he was taking his two men as crew, Abu said there was already enough men on board and two extra men would only add to the confusion. Phaulkon reminded Abu Umar that he was in command, and stated he would take only two of Abu Umar’s men aboard. Abu Umar protested and argued his point but he had no choice in the end other than to agree.

The tiny schooner flying the flag of Siam with its cargo of arms and supplies for the rebels set sail down river an hour after midnight with the tide in its favor. By dawn it had crossed the sand bar at the mouth of River Menam and entered the open sea.

Chapter 10
THE NECKLACE

Through the patience and understanding of his mandarin teacher, Phaulkon was able to learn the extremely refined and hierarchic court language of Siamese royalty. It was fair to say that he enjoyed his time spent with his teacher. They became fast friends, and Phaulkon felt he could speak openly on his most intimate feelings. Thamnon in turn taught Phaulkon more than the many dialects of the Siamese language. He taught him the intricacies of Siamese customs and habits. There were many things that interested Phaulkon, and many things he wanted to learn. He sincerely wanted to know why it was forbidden for the common people to look upon their king. Thamnon explained it stemmed from Hindu influence and not from Buddhism. Hinduism was the foundation of many things Siamese.

“The Ayutthaya kings assume the belief that they are earthly incarnations of the Brahman Gods, primarily Indra and Vishnu,” Thamnon explained. “The devaraja who inhabited this physical environment did not live the life of a mortal. In state functions and ceremonies, and even on royal hunts, as you saw, the king is dressed in the bejeweled costume of a god, with a pointed crown. He is borne everywhere on richly gilded palanquins, chariots or barges.” Thamnon went into detail about the ancient Indian myths of the ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu, particularly the Rama avatar. “In this incarnation, Vishnu assumed the human form of Rama to quell evil on earth. Kings built their palaces to befit the cosmology. The royal palaces you see in Ayutthaya epitomize the vision of what the heavenly abodes of the gods on Mount Meru must be. The throne hall where the king grants audience to his princes and the nobility is roofed with a lofty pointed spire. The palace buildings, made of brick and masonry, are quite different from the timber houses on stilts of commoners. They stand on solid bases, and are highly ornate with decorative elements.” He explained to Phaulkon about the half-human, half-bird figures called Hong Birds that are seen everywhere on the roof gables, and he told about the frightful heads of the Nagas, the great snakes which protruded into the sky. Thamnon was a master storyteller.

Phaulkon gave thought to all this as he walked through his own small garden, mediating about the things he had learned, and about all the things there were to learn still. He felt, had he been a Buddhist, he would have been reincarnated but, being a Christian, he felt he was simply re-born. Life was getting more complicated. Knowledge was not setting him free, as he once heard that it would. Deep down he knew there were those aspects of his life he could not change, that no amount of learning would alter. He came to believe that with all his schooling and learning, to win the heart of Marie, he needed something more than fine talk and manners. He knew to win her hand, he must show her his love by presenting her with something more valuable than Sorasak had given her. But what? He remembered the sapphire. She loved it, but yet she gave it back to Sorasak. Phaulkon remembered Marie saying she would only accept gifts from those who meant something to her. What if he presented her with such a gift, perhaps one even more valuable than the gift that Sorasak had offered her? There was one person in Ayutthaya who might know something about that necklace. That would be Abu Umar, the Arab dealer in gems. Phaulkon went to see him.

“The sapphire necklace, yes, yes, I know it well,” Abu said. “A very valuable piece. That was very much money.”

“I would like one like it, maybe even a better one,” Phaulkon said. “Can you have one made?”

Unbeknown to Phaulkon, this was the break Abu Umar was waiting for. His mind began to race ahead, but he had to remain indifferent. Phaulkon would do anything for such a necklace, he thought. Indeed, he had been waiting for such an opportunity.

“It would cost a great deal of money, but perhaps we can work something out,” he said, waiting until another merchant in his shop had left.

“And what might that be?” Phaulkon asked when they were alone.

“I have a shipment of black market goods to deliver to Songkau,” he said, lighting a cheroot. “If you were in command the shipment could get through.”

”And why me and not someone else?” Phaulkon asked. “That’s an easy run and anyone could do it.”

“Paper work. Clearance,” he replied. “It all takes time, it’s that simple.”

”And for that, you would provide me with a sapphire necklace, better than the one you made for Prince Sorasak?” Phaulkon asked.

“Like the one Sorasak had made, yes,” the Arab gem dealer replied. “You didn’t answer my question. What about the cargo? What is the cargo that makes it so precious?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Abu said. “It will be sealed. No one will know.”

Phaulkon did not like the sound of it. A cargo he knew nothing about. He backed down, thanked Abu and turned to leave. “Let’s forget that I was even here,” he said and departed.

A week later, long after dark, Phaulkon was in his apartment when there came a knock at his door. His first thought was that Monica was back pestering him again. He opened the door and Abu Umar stood there. Phaulkon glanced up and down the street. He was alone.

“I have something for you,” he said when he entered the apartment and hastily unbuttoned his outer garment. From an inside pocket he withdrew a leather pouch. Seeing a lamp aglow on a table where Phaulkon had been reading, he opened the pouch and emptied the contents on the table. It was a sapphire necklace. So magnificent was it that it caught the light of the oil lamp and cast a million tiny stars about the room. “It’s yours,” Abu said.

Phaulkon was thrown off guard, and too stunned to speak. He picked up the necklace, turned it over and set it down again.

“It is real, if that’s what you are thinking, and the very best,” Abu said with a silly smile on his face. He looked at Phaulkon, straight in the eyes, and realized he still had not won the battle. He responded quickly. “Make no decision now. Give it to your lady and then tell me your decision,” he said and didn’t wait for an answer. He bowed, turned and let himself out the door.

Phaulkon slept little that night. By morning he had made up his mind. He decided to give it the test. No more hedging around. He put on his whites, a suit he seldom wore, and placing Abu’s leather pouch into his side pocket, he picked up his pith helmet from the hat rack by the door and stepped out into the street. In ten minutes he was knocking at the front door of Mr. Fanique’s house. A servant opened the door, and seeing who it was, motioned that he should go around to the back door. He did nothing of the kind. Pushing the servant aside, he barged through the front door. Fanique, hearing the commotion, came rushing into the house from the courtyard outside. He was dressed in full samurai clothing. At the same instant, Marie appeared from a side room. They both halted in their steps when they saw Phaulkon standing there.

Fanique had been practicing with his sword in the courtyard, and from where Phaulkon stood he could see bamboo figures tightly bound in straw that Fanique had been using to practice his cuts. “What is the meaning of this,” he shouted. “Is this not my house?” He clutched his sword tightly in his right hand. Even in the dim light of the room the blade sparkled. There was fire in his eyes.

“I have come to ask your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Phaulkon said boldly in a loud voice.

Chapter 9
THE MAKING OF A MANDARIN

Thamnon was a mandarin. He came to Ayutthaya from China as an envoy from the Emperor of the Middle Kingdom. Like all mandarins, he was a scholar, one of the educated elite, a man held in high esteem in Asian society. The practice of sending mandarins to serve as advisors in foreign courts began back in the reign of Kublai Khan during the Mongol dynasty. Kublai Khan was an uneducated nomad who couldn’t read or write, but he realized the importance of being educated. Any male in China who wanted to advance his career through education could do so. A peasant could become a scholar, and a goat herder a gentleman. But the road to becoming a mandarin was not easy. There were no short cuts. It required many years hard work, from sun up to sun down, and discipline. The writings of the great teacher Confucius had to be mastered and the poems of Du Fu and Su Shu memorized. He had to know astronomy as well as calligraphy. It was imperative that he study history, know his politics and be well informed on moral issues. Students were required to pass tough examinations which were held periodically in districts around the kingdom. If a scholar failed the exam he took it again. If he got caught cheating in an exam, it could mean his execution.

Thamnon was one of these elite scholars. He was awarded, by the emperor, the second highest rank of the Seven Ranks of the Mandarin, the rank of Golden Pheasant. He was entitled to wear the Mandarin Patch, a large embroidered badge of a Golden Pheasant, sewn onto his outer garments. He was sent to Siam to serve as an advisor in the Royal Court of King Prasat Thong; but he had not been long at his post when back home in China Emperor Shunzhi’s favorite concubine, Dong, suddenly died-as a result of her grief over the loss of her own child. Overwhelmed with grief, Shunzhi contracted a terrible disease, the report said, and died shortly thereafter. That was one side of the story. The other was the young emperor did not pass away but left the palace to become a monk. Whatever the reason, his title was up for grabs.

Thamnon’s fate was in abeyance. While a new emperor was being chosen and the court of the Middle Kingdom was being shuffled about, he had to wait it out in Ayutthaya. He had been useful to the court of Siam and served King Prasat Thong well, but when King Prasat died, Thamnon’s tenure in Siam was held in suspense. No one was certain what China’s next move might be but, fortunately, mandarins were welcome in Siam for they were the doors through which all thoughts and deeds from China came.

Aside from serving as advisors to courts aboard, mandarins made excellent teachers, especially in the field of science. But King Narai had no sons and in the royal court there were few young students. King Narai had but one wife, the daughter of the ruler of Chiang Mai who he had defeated in battle. She gave birth to a daughter but died had soon after. He loved his daughter very much and became extremely protective of her. King Narai never remarried and he had no consorts or concubines.

When he first sat on the throne, King Narai called upon Thamnon for counsel in matters involving trade with China but the king’s trusted advisor, General Phetracha was opposed to foreign interference, any foreigners, not only Europeans. Thamnon was aware of General Phetracha’s dislike for him, or for any foreigner. In consequence, he spent much of his time in his garden. It was here in the garden that he awaited the arrival of his new student, Constantine Phaulkon.

When his servant announced that Phaulkon had arrived and was waiting in the study, Thamnon went to greet him there. The garden was his private domain and only rarely did he meet guests there. The study was where he kept his books, shelves of them, and on the walls hung astronomy charts and maps. It was here that he practiced calligraphy, and here he enjoyed the company of his friends over a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

Thamnon entered the study. His servants, on hands and knees, made the introduction and quietly vanished from the room. Phaulkon had been seated but now rose and stood at attention. He was dressed in his EiC uniform, his hat tucked under his arm. He looked smart, and much younger than his thirty-one years of age. Thamnon studied him from head to toe, as one might study a bas-relief that one doesn’t understand. Phaulkon on the other hand felt that he was being censured, standing there as he was in his quasinaval uniform. This wasn’t the image he wanted to present.

Whatever Thamnon’s feelings, Phaulkon too was a bit dismayed when he first saw his teacher. When George White told him that a Chinese mandarin had been arranged to tutor him in the Siamese court language, he expected someone quite different, someone perhaps more dynamic.

Phaulkon supposed that Thamnon had to be in his late sixties to have served the previous king of Siam. He was frail and frightfully thin. His fingers were long and delicate. He wore a long dark robe down to his ankles, split along the sides. The sleeves were extraordinarily wide. His Mandarin Patch with the Golden Pheasant was so badly faded Phaulkon would not have recognized it had not White told him about it beforehand.

Thamnon spoke in whispers, making it necessary for Phaulkon to concentrate on his every word. But Thamnon quickly put his student at ease by asking him questions about the sea, knowing that Phaulkon had been a sailor. For the first session, that lasted the entire afternoon, with pot after pot of tea, it was Phaulkon who was the teacher and Thamnon the student. Thamnon was keenly interested in the far ports of the world and he wanted to hear what Phaulkon knew about the sea trade that was rapidly building up between East and West. The second session, however, began in earnest. Thamnon led Phaulkon out into the garden which he rarely ever did with guests.

“We all need time.” Thamnon began, speaking slowly, as they strolled side by side along narrow pathways. “No, we must take the time to contemplate nature, and we do this in the East by creating gardens. We design them as secret enclosures with high walls, where we can be alone with our thoughts. This is a way of escaping from the outer world and returning to nature within.”

Phaulkon had to admit the garden was beautiful, and peaceful. No wonder the Chinese were great poets, he thought. He had never given much thought to gardens, until now. Thamnon’s garden was made up of rocks and bodies of water following the concept of Shan Shui. Thamnon explained that Shan Shui literally means “mountains and water.” Jagged rocks were carefully piled in groups, leaving hollows and crevices everywhere. Connecting pools of water ran among the rocks which were lined with bamboo. They came to a pavilion with a red tiled roof and windows of several shapes placed at different levels. They sat upon a wooden bench. “The windows are at different levels for a reason,” Thamnon explained. “Each one offers views of the garden that differ at various times of the day. In China the seasons are considered but here m Siam we need not consider that.”

Phaulkon was expecting a lengthy lecture on Shan Shui and Yin and Yang when Thamnon said, “When one speaks in a language, they think in that language. What language do you think in?”

A Chinese thinker using Greek sophist reasoning to find an answer, Phaulkon thought. How his father had used that on him. “It depends upon the depth of my thought,” he answered after some thought.

“Then you think because of words, “Thamnon said, and Phaulkon knew then that he had fallen into his trap. His teacher was clever. It was best that he just listen.

“We need words to play with,” Thamnon began again. “For without words there would be no thought. One’s mode of thought, the concepts of images, the very thought pattern, even the sounds of a language are so different that we reach different conclusions with different languages.”

“I will accept that,” Phaulkon said. .

“Then with that in mind, you will understand the concept of Tai royal language. In your travels you have learned the Tai language of the common people. But the language of the common people will not get you very far.” Phaulkon nodded. Thamnon continued “Originally, “khun,” for example, was a Khmer tide and referred to the king. Now it’s being applied to officials and the king’s language has acquired more elaborate tides. And that’s where the difficulty of learning the royal language begins. Royal tides include those for children by the royal queen, for the children by a non-royal queen and for the grandchildren.”

“Then I must learn these tides?”

“I wish that was all. There is more to it than that. Are you still determined?” Thamnon asked.

“Even more than when I arrived here,” Phaulkon answered.

“But you are interested in the royal language. It is the most unusual of all Tai languages. It is called rappratan. You must remember, royalty uses special words for common actions and for parts of the body. This special, formal language is a mixture of words of Khmer, Pali and Sanskrit.”

“But it can be learned, can’t it? Or am I not right?” Phaulkon asked.

“Yes, you can, but you must see and understand what you are attempting to do; even the educated Siamese find it most difficult. There is more than the languages of the common people and that of royalty; there are three distinct languages, and different, say, are the nouns and the verbs that are used by the different classes-royalty, ecclesiastics and common people. The problem rises with the social structure of the Tai people. It’s one of rank and intimacy, and that means a royal language, an ecclesiastic language, and a polite everyday vernacular language. And you might even say there is a fourth, an earthy, pungent slang.”

“When do we begin?” Phaulkon asked.

“We have already begun,” Thamnon replied. “Now would you like something to eat?” Before Phaulkon could answer, Thamnon said, “Tell me that in Tai.”

“Yes,” Phaulkon answered, “I would like to kin.”

“No, we shall begin now by speaking only in royal court Tai, and to eat in rappratan is sawuy. Kin is a common form used between friends. But to use it with a new acquaintance would be viewed as presumptuous and perhaps rude.”

“I do not wish to be rude,” Phaulkon said and for the first time since they had met, Thamnon laughed. It was not a big hearty laugh, but a gentle one, and one that accepted the Greek sailor into his private coterie. For the months that followed, Phaulkon’s life was not his own. But he did learn fast.

Chapter 8B
Getting Closer

At the Fanique residence, Marie was with her father in the courtyard with her maid when they heard someone at the back entrance. She knew who it might be for she had heard a messenger earlier in the day announce that the shipment of cloth was arriving, and George White and his assistant were bringing it in person. She wondered if the assistant might be the young foreign man she saw around town, the stranger who brought the wine two nights ago.

“Father, I think it is your friend again,” she said in an anxious voice.

“Marie, my dear daughter, must I tell you they are not my friends,” he replied. “Mr. White is a trader and he happens to have some merchandise that interests me, and which you also might like to see.”

George White entered the yard, bowed graciously toward Fanique and his daughter, and with a flourish of a hand he motioned for the others to come forth.

Phaulkon stepped out from the darkened doorway, followed by a procession of six assistants carrying bolts of cloth. When Fanique saw that Phaulkon was one of them, he was not pleased. Taking his daughter by the hand, he called for her maid to come and take her away. “Step back, step back, my dear,” he said. “Let these men work and I shall call you when we are ready.” She stepped back with her maid at her side, but only a short distance. She caught Phaulkon looking at her and, seeing her father’s attention was elsewhere, gave him a warm smile.

Phaulkon had not seen Marie face to face until now. Before it was always from afar. She was even more beautiful that he imagined. She wore a simple light green gown and had her hair braided with a ribbon of the same color. There was a moment of silence, and then, before anyone could say a word, Phaulkon boldly took a step forward. Addressing Marie and her father, in sweeping gesture, like a coachman opening a door, he said in a convincing voice, “I am at your service. My name is Constantine Phaulkon.” But he was no coachman.

White’s face turned ashen. He could see the sale of the silk to Fanique vanish before his eyes. Fanique was too bewildered to say or do anything. Marie, on the other hand, blushed and lowered her eyes. Her long lashes fluttered as she did. She curtsied, holding the ends of her gown outward. Phaulkon was prepared for the occasion. White hadn’t paid attention to him when they met earlier in the evening. He hadn’t noticed that his protege wore a scarlet vest and long waistcoat, and that his boots-boots that reached to his knees-were polished to sheen. He hadn’t thought about the peaked officer’s cap which Phaulkon wore, and which he now waved about with one hand as he spoke. Tall and handsome, White had to admit, he did make a fine show, standing there before Fanique and his daughter, his lovely daughter Marie.

“Shall we begin, gentlemen,” White spoke up quickly, breaking the silence that had fallen over everyone. “These are the finest silks from India,” he began, ranting on. “There are no finer in all the lands.”

Phaulkon motioned with a nod for Marie to step aside, away from the others. She was hesitant, glancing at her father, but his attention no longer centered on Phaulkon nor upon her. His eyes fell upon the bolts of silk the attendants began unrolling at his feet. He was delighted, mesmerized, by the river of beautiful colors that flowed across the floor at his feet. He bent down upon one knee to feel the silk’s softness, its smoothness. Marie holding on to her maid slipped away with Phaulkon. He had offered her his arm, but she declined. She lowered her head like a schoolgirl and she and her maid followed him to a corner.

“Your lady is very pretty,” Phaulkon said to the maid. Marie blushed. “And she likes pretty things.”

The smile faded from Marie’s face. She addressed the maid. “Why would anyone who doesn’t know me say that I like pretty things?” “The general’s son is very lavish with gifts,” Phaulkon said to the maid. “He gives your lady fine gifts and she seems very happy, as she was when I saw them together the other night.”

“Maybe you mean that necklace. What you did not see was that I gave it back,” she said, speaking directly at Phaulkon at which the maid admonished her.

“Never mind,” Phaulkon said to the maid. “She has spirit, and I like that in women.”

Marie, pretending not to hear him, continued talking to the maid. “What girl wouldn’t like beautiful things,” she said. “But only those gifts when they came from the right person. Nothing that Sorasak gives me would I like. You might tell Mr. Phaulkon this.”

“Her father doesn’t think so,” Phaulkon said to the maid. “My father is a businessman,” she replied curtly.

“Yes, I know,” Phaulkon said, at first in Siamese and then Portuguese. “You must excuse me, my dear lady. I do not intend to be rude.”

“You are good with languages, I heard,” Marie said. “Is that all you heard?” he asked.

She avoided the question. ”And what about Japanese, do you know Japanese as well?” She then spoke to him in Japanese.

“No Japanese,” he said with reproach, “but that will come next. I shall require a teacher. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied smartly. “You can make use of my teacher. I shall loan him to you. He is old, very old, not pretty at all, and crippled, but he is a very good teacher.”

They both laughed. Marie, who had been shy until now found herself at ease with Phaulkon. He made her laugh. He was different, far more different than anyone else she had met. She liked his company.

There was no time for further conversation. Fanique was pleased with the silk and turned to look about, and saw his daughter in a corner with Phaulkon. His radiance showed displeasure. He came bolting across the room and grabbing her by the arm, shouted at her in Japanese and then at the maid in Portuguese. Like an obedient daughter, Marie listened to her father with bowed head. It was uncomfortable for everyone there. Fanique then announced the meeting was over. He informed White he would send a messenger to his office with his decision about the sale the next day. He curtly bid everyone good-bye, with the exception of Phaulkon. He ignored him.

He then had his servant lead White, his assistants and Phaulkon to the back gate. When Phaulkon looked back, hoping for a last glimpse at Marie, she was not about. Her father had ushered her and her maid away. The courtyard was empty.

“You do not give up easily,” White said to Phaulkon when they were on their way back to White’s apartment for a drink.

“I do not intend to. I am not easily daunted,” Phaulkon replied in a voice of determination.

“I could see that. I might say you even enjoyed it,” White said.

He thought for a moment and continued. “If you are that determined, and you want to succeed, then I fear you have to make some changes.”

“Changes!”

“Yes, changes.”

“What do you mean, changes?” Phaulkon asked, “What do I have to change? You told me I already have the best tailor in the kingdom.”

”And you have done well, but let me tell you, dress is only part of the show. The other is manners. You are rough around the edges. You have not been schooled in the graces of Siamese court life. You are gruff, and might I say, even ill mannered. You point with your toes and pat kids on the head. What you are lacking is culture. Marie is cultured; she likes nice things, it’s true, but she likes music and poetry as well. That is culture.”

“That is all,” Phaulkon said with sarcasm. “Is that what culture is, music and poetry? Tell me, perhaps I should have stayed home in Greece. There’s beauty everywhere there. And even the poorest farmer, the worker pressing wine in the vineyard, they all can recite the Greek poets. Is that the culture you mean, the culture I fled from?”

“You want to get off your high horse. You want to listen? If you are looking for an argument I’ll stop here. You know damn well that is not what I mean.”

“What do you mean then?” Phaulkon asked, more confused than ever. ”Are you saying that I should be more like Sorasak?”

“Sorasak is a bully. I wouldn’t ask anyone to emulate him nor the likes of him. The culture I am talking about is knowing and liking nice things. You are read, Phaulkon, more perhaps than many missionaries here. You know the poets and fine wines, you have good taste. So why don’t you show it? Stop being a seaman. For some it takes a lifetime to master these things, and some may never get to know them. You are an exception.”

”And what about you?” Phaulkon asked.

“Damn you, Phaulkon. There you go again, always on the defensive. We are not talking about me,” White answered abruptly. “We are talking about you. Do you want to listen? Do you want to learn?”

“Of course, if that is what it takes,” Phaulkon replied. “I am sorry if I give the wrong impression. Time is against me. I don’t want to linger any longer.”

“Then you had better not waste any more time. You have to get started immediately,” White said emphatically.

“I know I can learn. I know I can.” Phaulkon said with earnest. He remembered what Captain Hollingsworth aboard the Northumbrian had told him, that everything he needs to know he can find in books. But there were no books in Ayutthaya.

“You can learn certainly,” White said again. “But all depends how determined you are, and if you have a good teacher. That’s important, a good teacher.”

”And how do I find such a person as that?” Phaulkon asked, a bit down hearted.

“Don’t be so glum,” White said with a laugh and a slap on Phaulkon’s shoulder. “I know just the person, and the best.”

Chapter 8A
A LADY IN WAITING

When George White returned home that night, Myra was still awake, waiting for him in the foyer. Upon seeing her, all perfumed and pretty, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around and around. After throwing himself into his favorite fanback chair in the salon, he pulled her down into his lap. He squeezed her tightly.

“Darling, you are very happy this evening,” she said in her soft Portuguese accent.

“Maybe because I have you,” he replied and kissed her kindly on the cheek.

“Me?” she sighed.

“Yes, you,” he answered.

He was about to tell her what he meant but then he thought it was best not to. He didn’t want to confuse the matter more than it already was. On his way home he had been troubled over Phaulkon’s fascination with Fanique’s daughter. What was her name-Marie. What an odd name for a Japanese woman, he thought. But then she was Christian, living not in the Japanese quarter but in the Portuguese quarter. He couldn’t understand it, not at all. What was wrong with Phaulkon? White searched his brain for an answer as he walked the streets to his house, but he could find none. Phaulkon had the choice of practically any young maiden in Ayutthaya that he wanted. He was handsome beyond question, still young and virile, always jolly and easy with words, and he had a pleasant manner about him. Women liked him, that was certain. In the less than a year in the kingdom he had already had two serious affairs, and came near to marrying one of the two ladies involved. There was Catona, the daughter of Don Joseph Castillan of Manila. She was beautiful. And there was Monica Suarez, no less beautiful. Monica was a ‘creacaon,’ a name given by the Portuguese to the children brought up by them, whether belonging to their domestic slaves or being orphans. White was sure Phaulkon’s affair with Monica would be lasting. She was the one he had sent to Phaulkon to help decorate his apartment. They got along splendidly together. And then Catona came along, and everyone thought that Don Joseph Castillan would kill Phaulkon for taking up his daughter. Phaulkon did have difficulty in shaking off Monica. Finally Senor Suarez, to White’s displeasure, had to send Monica to Manila. Now everyone was certain that Catona had won and it looked like marriage. But Phaulkon drew the line when he refused to turn Roman Catholic. Several Englishmen in British India had traveled to Rome under similar circumstances and Phaulkon was told he could follow. He wouldn’t concede. The church ended their relationship. White was worried that Phaulkon had made enemies with the Jesuits in Ayutthaya. It didn’t seem to bother Phaulkon. Regardless, Catona and Monica were no longer in the picture. As White kicked up dust walking home, he wondered if it might not be that Phaulkon was after Marie for the challenge. A man like Phaulkon thrives on challenges.

Still, challenge or not, White could not fathom the attraction Phaulkon had for a Japanese girl. A girl, not yet a woman. White liked voluptuous, spirited women, and he thought that Phaulkon did too, until Marie came into the picture. She was in White’s opinion, far too young, not more than sixteen years old, and inexperienced. She was attractive, that was certain and men did turn heads when she passed, but she was not beautiful. She was too pasty white, he thought, nor did she have the kind of figure that might lure a man to temptation. He thought about that for a while. With all her kimonos and obis and sashes, it was difficult to tell what might lie beneath her garments. Maybe it was the anticipation that got the best of Phaulkon, his not knowing, his uncertainty. But it wasn’t very likely Phaulkon would ever find out. Mr. Fanique would make sure of that. Phaulkon would have to find out the facts for himself, and this is what he did not tell Myra as she curled up in his arms. He did not tell her about Phaulkon and his love affairs. Instead, he told her about a funny story he heard that day, and she was happy when he carried her up the steps to their room.

Phaulkon took charge of the shipment as planned. With Diego and Christoph’s help he saw that the oxen cart was properly loaded, and he followed the cart and driver to the Portuguese quarter as Fanique had instructed. They came after sunset and entered the back gate. “He doesn’t want to take any chances,” Phaulkon thought as he pulled a cord and rang a bell somewhere within the compound.

Presently a guard arrived and swung the heavy gate open, and Phaulkon and his cartload of booty entered. Mr. Fanique came boldly out of the house, and at first he did not recognize Phaulkon. Then, when he did, he stumbled for words. “You, you-” he began.

“Yes, me,” Phaulkon interrupted. “Remember, George White’s party. We met.” “I thought-“

“You thought I was with the EiC,” Phaulkon announced. “Well, I am with the company. That’s correct. But I also do a few chores for Mr. White every now and then.”

Fanique was perplexed. Who was this man, this uncouth seaman masquerading as someone he wasn’t? Fanique was always quick to make snap judgements. Now he was not sure about himself He wanted to pursue the conversation further but Phaulkon did not want to enter into a play of words, not now. He had something else in mind and definitely not a tete-a-tete with a Japanese warlord. No, he came in hope of seeing the man’s daughter.

As Phaulkon and the others walked toward the house, he kept looking about, perhaps to catch sight of her. Finally, when they entered the house, he saw her. She was standing in the very center of the inner courtyard. She was talking to someone but pillars at the edge of the courtyard blocked Phaulkon’s view.

Perhaps White would have changed his mind about her had he seen her there as Phaulkon did that evening. She was radiant. She was without kimonos and sash, and wore only a thin gown. She wore no heavy white make- up nor were her lips painted red. She was, in fact, without make-up of any kind. She was as fresh as a newborn babe. Even from the distance, Phaulkon could see her soft white skin that had never known a ray of sun, and her hair was not black but brown, long and wavy, not straight as that of most women of Asia.

As Phaulkon gazed upon her, his mind raced back to when he was a boy back home in Greece. He had wandered into the garden of a nobleman, and there in the shadow of olive trees he saw a marble statue of a Greek goddess. So perfect was the statue, so beautiful that he wanted to reach up and touch her, to run his hands over her body, to caress her. But he dared not. He learned then, as a young boy, it was possible to fall in love with a statue, as Pygmalion, the King of Cyprus had done. It was a tale every Greek schoolboy knew. The king was also a sculptor and he sculpted a statue of a goddess and so beautiful was she that he fell in love with her. The story told was that when he kissed the statue she came to life. And now, many years later, in the courtyard of a Japanese Samurai in an eastern kingdom called Ayutthaya, a statue had come to life. She was real, alive. But unlike the statue of the King of Cyprus, if someone kissed this lovely Japanese girl, as fair as any princess, as any goddess, would she be the opposite and turn to stone? What a horrible thought. She could never be stone. One day he would kiss her.

But Phaulkon’s moment of lofty ecstasy was short lived. The girl was not alone. She was surrounded by many suitors, all pressing to win her favor by presenting her with garlands of flowers and tiny gifts wrapped in silk. One young man, obviously a prince from the way he was dressed, and with his hair fashioned in a knot atop his head, attempted to read poetry to her. He tried to be sincere but his voice cracked and he was nervous. He was ridiculed by the others but he didn’t seem to mind.

She took it all so light-heartedly but nevertheless it was obvious she enjoyed the attention. Fanique then noticed Phaulkon’s interest in his daughter, and pulled him behind a curtain to look upon the scene up close. Fanique was not aware of the tenseness of the matter. He did not know that Phaulkon had hidden feelings for his daughter. He merely wanted to show Phaulkon how popular she was, like any proud father would be. He pointed out to Phaulkon that one of the suitors was the son of General Phetracha, the king’s trusted general. How much higher could one strive?

Fanique may have been pleased but Phaulkon’s outlook was not the same. He recognized the prince at once. He had seen him about and was warned to keep a safe distance from him. His name was Sorasak. He was arrogant and rude, and he flaunted his authority at anyone who crossed his path. He was disliked by everyone, and feared by them. Fanique whispered to Phaulkon that Sorasak brings his daughter expensive gifts. After a few minutes, fearing that he and Phaulkon, an errand boy, might be seen together, Fanique led Phaulkon back the way they came. But they were not as quiet leaving as Fanique had wanted them to be. His daughter, knowing now that someone was stirring, looked up, and caught sight of them. She stopped and grew still, and then she smiled at Phaulkon.

Fanique was not pleased. After paying Phaulkon off, he hastily pushed him out of the door.

A few days later, Phaulkon met George White and tried to be circumspect with him while trying to find out more about Fanique’s daughter. White knew what Phaulkon was after. “You’re interested in Marie,” he said, straight to the point without playing on words.

“Marie?” Phaulkon repeated.

“Yes, Marie, you know who I mean.”

“Marie is a Western name,” Phaulkon said, not wanting to admit his interest.

“It’s also Japanese,” White said. “You went to her house the other night. What do you think, that she’s ready to fall madly for your charms?”

“I hardly got a good look at her. I only saw her from a distance,” Phaulkon said in defense.

In very polite words, without wanting to offend him, White explained to Phaulkon that he was wasting his time. Marie’s father was a tyrant, especially when it came to his daughter. He was grooming her for better things. A young, unschooled suitor like Phaulkon, no matter how grand a picture he presented to the world, would not have a chance. “If it will make you any happier, you can come with me tomorrow night. I have a shipment of bolts of Chinese silk that Fanique wants to see. Then you might see your goal is hopeless.”

“Perhaps, but can I not find out for myself?” Phaulkon said.

“I don’t know why I am doing this but maybe because I am a fool,” White said.

“Maybe it’s because you like some excitement,” Phaulkon added. “Maybe because I think it is the best way for you to get it out of

your system,” White said and smiled. “We will see,” Phaulkon replied.

They agreed to meet the next evening.

Chapter 7B
Japanese Client

“His name is Fanique, a most unusual fellow”, White said later. “I see that,” Phaulkon answered.

“It’s not what you can see, but what you can’t see, that is important. He is mad and, with madness in men like him, we must take care.” White spoke in a hushed voice. “And he has a beautiful daughter,” he added, “a daughter who brings him contentment and at the same time concern.” He let it stand and said no more.

In time Phaulkon would know everyone he met that night, by name as well as by face. In the meantime he had a myriad of things that had to be done. Topping the list was his desire to find two friends from the shipwreck, the two men who nursed him back to life in prison-Diego and Christoph. He had heard that someone had seen them in Ayutthaya but that was all the information he had to go on. He searched everywhere. He knew they were devoted Christians and he asked the missionaries if they could assist in helping him find them. There was little else he could do but wait.

Then there was the matter of a place to live. That was solved when the East India Company found him a house within a short walk from his office. With the help of a young Portuguese woman named Monica, a friend of George White whom he had sent to help, he decorated the place much like the palaces of Constantinople he had seen in his travels. It even had a horseshoe-shaped staircase that led to an enclosed courtyard. He and Monica decorated the large living room in blue brocade and hung Persian drapes upon its walls. And like they have in the Middle East, it had a throne room, his bedchamber. Then came his dress. White took him to an Indian tailor and outfitted him in a new wardrobe. White instructed Phaulkon that the white man must maintain proper Western wear. “Your dress is important,” he said, “for it’s the dress that proclaims a man, that sets him apart from others. You must not go native for then you lose respect.”

Phaulkon disagreed but he kept his thoughts to himself and acquiesced to White’s instructions. He let the tailor do as White had bid. The truth, however, was that Phaulkon liked much better the clothes worn by the Siamese-sarongs and loose fitting blouses, sashes and cummerbunds, to tuck things into, and soft cotton footwear. Phaulkon thought it was a pity the way foreigners dressed, both men and women. They cared not that they were in the tropics, and forgoing comfort for fashion they dressed as they might in London or Paris. Their clothing was terribly uncomfortable. Western men wore tight woolen trousers, tunics and long coats with vests. They wore kerchiefs about their necks to stop the perspiration, and they carried small towels tucked into their waist coats to use to mop their brows. They wore heavy cumbersome leather boots. They perspired profusely, and their clothing was testimony to the fact. Westerners had a foul odor about them which the Siamese found offensive. But the Siamese, being as considerate as they were, never mentioned it.

Western men were overdressed, but their women were more ridiculous. They clad themselves in hooped skirts with layer upon layer of petticoats and other such undergarments. They wore high-neck lace blouses with puffed-up sleeves. They favored flowing curls to simple hairstyles of the Siamese. Phaulkon watched one western woman in her hooped skirt and as she was crossing the road she got caught up in a sudden wisp of wind that knocked her off her feet. She fell over and was unable to get up, lying there on her side, kicking her feet in the air in desperation. The Siamese, uncertain what to do, and fearful of touching a foreign women as they were with their own nobility, scurried past her without giving a helping hand. Phaulkon came to her aid and pulled her to her feet. She stood there, unsteady, dusting herself off, and cursed the Siamese for their indifference. She stormed off without acknowledging Phaulkon for his help.

From the first day that Phaulkon stepped ashore, he was drawn by the beauty of the Siamese women. He admired their slender bodies, their firm breasts, their unblemished skin. He liked every• thing about them, the way they walked, the way they bowed their heads in coquettish displays of flirtation, and above all he liked their gay laughter. They laughed at everything. If he innocently tripped over a stone along the roadside, they laughed; if he flinched touching a cup of hot tea, they laughed; if he mispronounced a word, they laughed. Their laughter was in jest and not in mockery. They played with their world as a child would play with toys.

Siamese women adorned themselves with an abundance of jewelry-rings and pendants, bracelets and earrings. The dress of noble women was extremely rich and elegant; their tunics were composed of scarlet silk with brocaded gold flowers. Their underskirts were of green and gold, with frills of exquisite work, from their elbows to the wrists.

One morning on his way to Burnaby’s office, where he now had a desk, Phaulkon saw a young Japanese lady disembarking from a klong boat, and being polite and gentlemanly he nodded to her. She ignored him completely, as if he didn’t exist, and turned away. Phaulkon was amazed, startled by her beauty, especially her white skin, whiter than the whitest cloud. Her lips were tinted a brilliant red and resembled a rose bud about to open. The red lips made her skin look even whiter. Her eyelashes were black, coal black, and her hair was drawn straight and tied up in a bun in the back. A heavy comb held her hair neatly in place. Not a strand of hair was out of place. She wore no jewelry, but with her bright kimono and scarlet sash she needed no other adornment. She was beauty in motion. Phaulkon watched her, mesmerized by the image of her, and in the next instant she was gone, almost as though she never existed. When he reached the office George White was in conference with Burnaby and, when they broke, Phaulkon asked him who the lovely Japanese woman was that he saw. White said, after Phaulkon described her, that there was only one Japanese in all the kingdom like her, so it had to be Mr. Fanique’s daughter, the Japanese gentleman he met at the party upon his arrival. She lived with her father in the Portuguese quarter.

“But who is she?” Phaulkon asked.

“You are persistent,” White said. “You are not satisfied with the Portuguese woman I sent you?” Then, with a smile, he continued. “You are better off if you stay clear of her. Stay far away. She is from a group of Japanese Christians who fled to Siam from Japan. Her father, the Japanese gentleman you met, is part Bengalese. An American square-rigger carrying a group of missionaries became shipwrecked on the Japanese coast and found refuge in an isolated village. Those missionaries who managed to survive succeeded in converting the villagers into Christians. When they were discovered, the Shoguns persecuted them and drove them off. The King of Siam granted them asylum and allowed them to settle in the country. Being Christians they have to live in the Portuguese quarter and not in the Japanese section. The girl’s father is a tyrant, and protective of his daughter. He has groomed her for better things than the likes of common seamen like us.”

Phaulkon laughed out loud. “I have heard of this man,” he said. “I know who he is and he is no noble. He’s a black marketer.”

Now it was White and Burnaby’s turn to smile. “Best some things not said,” White replied, and then told them they were about to meet Samuel Potts. “Now there’s your scoundrel if there ever was one,” he said. “He’s one of your East India Company officers who was sent out to take charge of checking company accounts. He can’t be trusted. Avoid him. He wrote to the home office in England complaining that the books were not in order. We know he pockets money from the Siamese merchants, and there is no way of catching him. You will hear him telling you that he is underpaid.”

Phaulkon easily made friends with sailors and merchants at the godowns along the docks. He knew that seamen are the best source of information a man can have. He learned that one of the major grievances with merchants is that the king’s merchant’s ships can sail only as far as India and China, a ruling forced by the Dutch after they blockaded the river. It was an unfavorable trade agreement forced upon their King Narai by the Dutch. Either Indians or English seamen must man ships that sail to India. Ships that go to China, by Chinese. Phaulkon’s mind began to work. There must be some way the king can disavow the trade agreement.

Later Phaulkon took up the matter with Burnaby, and voiced his opinion about how unfair he thought the agreement was. Burnaby set him straight. “The king is more clever than you might think,” he said. He explained to Phaulkon that the Crown’s motives for developing relations with the Dutch were twofold. First, as a powerful and advanced state as the Dutch were, Siam welcomed trade with them not only for a source of revenue but also as a way to obtain superior weapons. The Siamese wanted guns and ammunition and personnel to teach them how to operate them. Once they were well armed and trained, Ayutthaya could quash any unrest that might challenge the kingdom from Angkor and Burma, or from rival hordes in the north. Phaulkon was finding that he admired the king for his shrewdness, and he vowed that one day he would meet this king.

While Phaulkon worked the waterfront and soon learned the ins-and-outs of trade in Ayutthaya, Burnaby dove into his work with a vengeance. He checked manifests and invoices and verified the wares in the godowns. He studied the bills of lading and looked over contracts. He worked long hours, beginning at daylight and continuing until dark. But he was very much annoyed for Potts was forever at his heels, looking over his shoulder, nibbling into his affairs. Phaulkon’s first flare-up with Potts came when he was at the docks. A merchant, learning that he was with the East India Company and thinking he was an accomplice of Potts, told him that he had money set aside for Potts, and for Potts to come and collect it. Phaulkon approached Potts in the presence of Burnaby and told him what he had learned. “You are making side-deals,” he said to Potts. Potts wormed his way out, but there was fire in his eyes when he looked at Phaulkon.

Phaulkon became Burnaby’s right-hand man, but he also ran errands for his friend George White. As his reputation grew, he was called upon for advice and for information, and sometimes for help. One night when he was in his apartment, George White visited him unexpectedly. He was carrying a flask of Jamaican rum.

“I hear you are at loggerheads with Mr. Potts,” White began after he had poured the rum.

Phaulkon was astonished how rapidly news passed. He was also curious how the confrontation with Potts fell into the hands of George White so soon. As an interloper, White was an outsider with the East India Company and, officially, there was little he had to do with the company. He was an interloper, a free trader in competition with the East India Company, yet he maintained he was an Englishman first. In good faith, he keep the East India Company informed with what was going on in the underworld. The East India Company respected him and tolerated his activities as an independent trader.

White explained to Phaulkon that he was well aware of Potts’ behavior. He knew all about his shifty methods. “Potts hires local bandits,” he said, “bandits to steal from his own warehouse and he then divides the loot with them. He’s dangerous, but he is prone to error and sooner or later the ax will fall. But beware, he may strike you down first.” He paused, poured two more rums and announced, “Enough about Potts. There is other news that I bring you, unofficially that is.” They drank a toast. Phaulkon wondered what it might be.

White told him that a shipment of Portuguese wine had slipped by the king’s customs and was offered up on the black market. “What does this have to do with me?” Phaulkon asked. He didn’t care to engage in illegal activities that might put him back in prison. He was being cautious.

“You can handle the shipment.” White replied.

“Why are you asking me?” he questioned. “There’s hardly much of a profit in a shipment of wine to make it worth the risk.” “We are not talking about profit,” White said.

“If not profit, then what?” he asked.

‘There’s a buyer for the shipment, someone that might interest you.” Immediately Phaulkon thought it might be Potts. Could this be the downfall of Potts? “You must mean Potts,” Phaulkon said.

“No, nothing so uninteresting. The party who wants to buy the shipment is none other that Mr. Fanique, the father of the beautiful daughter who interests you.”

Phaulkon didn’t hesitate. This could be his chance to meet Fanique’s daughter. He jumped at the offer. He would deliver the cargo himself.

“I accept,” he said to George White.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” George White said. A smile crossed his face. “You’re smiling. What is it that can make an old grouch like you smile?” Phaulkon asked

“You’ll see,” he said and pointed to the door. “There are two men waiting there to see you.”

Phaulkon rushed to the door and opened it. There on the stone steps sat Diego and Christoph. Upon seeing their lost shipmate they jumped to their feet and all three men embraced. “Tell me,” shouted Phaulkon, “what have you two been up to? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been searching for you two, and I need you. You are going to come work for me.”

Diego and Christoph agreed. They would start to work the very next day for Phaulkon by delivering a shipment of wine.

Chapter 7A
OFFICE OF RICHARD BURNABY, ESQ.

Richard Burnaby, officer of the English East India Company, and George White, free trader and interloper, were at the dockside outside the south gate to Ayutthaya when White’s trading schooner Alicia arrived from Songkau. Among the few passengers who stepped ashore there came their friend from days past, but a friend they hardly recognized. Both men had to take a hard second look to make sure their eyes weren’t deceiving them. The man who stepped ashore was clean-shaven, his hair clipped short, his sideburns trimmed. He wore seaman clothes, those of an officer-a long blue waist coat, peaked blue cap and soft leather boots. Indeed, he looked quite debonair. Not even the devil himself would have recognized him for the man he had once been.

“Mr. Phaulkon, I assume,” George White said when the man stood before them. Phaulkon nodded and gave a customary salute. White continued: “My name is George White and this is Mr. Richard Burnaby from the East India Company.” It was all that he and Burnaby could do to keep a serious composure as they shook hands. They had to be commended. They had accomplished a remarkable feat and, beneath their exterior, they were quite proud. Mr. Phaulkon was even more respectable than they had ever imagined he could be. He carried his role smartly. He remained stern, his jaws set, and calmly he acknowledged he was their man. It was almost a bit unnerving that he had carried it out so well.

Their greeting at the dock was short, and with the turbaned Sikh guards in the lead, they started out for the city on foot. For Burnaby and White it was an ordinary walk. White had made it daily over the years, and some days several times. And Burnaby, too, in the six months that he had been in Ayutthaya, knew the walk well. But for Gerakis, now known as Phaulkon, it was something else. It had been a dream and now a dream had come true. He was alive, bursting inside with excitement. He was finally walking through the streets of the very city he had longed to visit for so many years. Beneath his long blue jacket his heart pounded, and not in fear this time but in joy. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice, and it was all he could do to act nonchalantly, like there was nothing unusual about him walking the streets of Ayutthaya. He gave the impression to those who watched the three men pass that he was none other than an officer reporting for duty. Nevertheless, his dream had come true and he wasn’t about to let anything pass without his noticing. Burnaby and White had to constantly pull at his arm to keep him moving.

Ayutthaya was everything that Phaulkon had envisioned and even more. Of course, he was fascinated by the splendor of the city, but it was not so much by the temples and their glitter, for that he had expected, as much as it was the trading that was going on, trading in the shops, in the alleyways, in the streets, in the open. In every direction he looked people were either buying or selling. The entire city was a grand bazaar shopping center. Everyone, man, woman and child were engaged in trade of one form or another. Never had he seen anything like it, neither in the streets of Calicut nor in the bazaars in Arab ports of the Middle East, or even in the bustling ports back in Genoa or Venice in Europe. Nowhere could compare to Ayutthaya. It was shopping unequalled anywhere in the world. The open-fronted shops were bulging with wares. He couldn’t help stopping, despite the other two trying to resist his interest from checking the merchandise. Bolts of fine silks from China, fine porcelain from Japan, bags of tea from the hills, sacks of spices that rendered up magnificent aromas, scented wood, elephant tusks in bundles and so many strange things he did not even know. There were woven mats and carpets, brass pots and trays, candlestick holders and hanging oil lamps. There were animal hides of deer and buffalo, stacked as high as one could reach. White saw him looking puzzled at the hides. “Everything that has a market is here in Ayutthaya, everything is that is, that’s saleable. All things saleable pass through Ayutthaya,” White said with pride.

“But hides-“

“Hides, you want to know why all the hides? It’s the Japanese,” he said. “The samurai in Japan make their armor from hides, everything. They buy up all the hides the Siamese can produce. The cows of Siam contribute to the Japanese war effort.”

Phaulkon was curious to hear more about the sale of hides but their conversation was cut short by a commotion up the street ahead of them. People on the street had moved back against the walls and into doorways to get out of the way. When the three men drew nearer they could see two Siamese soldiers holding an Arab by his outstretched arms while a third man was beating upon his back and head with a leather whip. Phaulkon was alarmed, and White could sense it. “Never mind,” White said. “The man standing in the background is the Phra Klang.’; Phaulkon took notice of the man. He was a big, heavy-set man with a protruding belly. He wore a silk penang with a fancy vest and a bright red sash that girded his waist.

“The Phra Klang?” Phaulkon asked. “Does that give him the right to whip a man?”

“With the Phra Klang, yes,” White answered stoically, and then in a calmer voice explained who the Phra Klang was. “Phra Klang is a tide granted to the king’s Minister of Trade. But the Portuguese have corrupted the name, and it became Barcalon.”

White turned to a bystander and asked why the Arab was being whipped.

“Phra Klang was inspecting goods being unloaded from ships, and he caught the Arab stealing,” the man said.

“It was probably the king’s goods, which makes it worse,” White added. “It seems the Barcalon ordered his guards to admonish him. It could be worse. That’s the price for getting caught.”

“He has to do it publicly?” Burnaby questioned.

“Yes, especially publicly,” White said. “Cruel, yes, but unjust, no. The Barcalon is a fair and a just man, especially with foreigners, and his own people respect him. Take a look at him-” they watched the Barcalon walk away followed by his retinue of assistants-“see how the people bow down as he passes. He’s just, but he doesn’t like to be crossed or cheated.”

The men had gone only a few paces when a white man accosted the Barcalon. By the looks of his dress, the man was obviously the captain of a vessel in port. They were close enough to hear the conversation. The Barcalon worked himself into an uproar. He spoke in Portuguese, clear and precise. “No, no, no,” he ranted. “No barter, only cash. And no loans. That’s final.” The captain backed off, threatened by the sight of the Barcalon’s men who took up positions at their master’s side. The captain stepped back and bowed.

“No offense, Sir,” he said. “No offense.” He watched as the Barcalon marched away followed by his men.

Rum flowed freely the night Phaulkon came to Ayutthaya. Every foreigner in the community, and many Siamese as well, came to meet the newest member of the English East India Company. Phaulkon greeted everyone warmly, addressing them in Greek and Italian, in Malay and Portuguese, and even in Siamese. He was graced with charm, and he spoke amicably well of the company he was about to work for. He joked that he reckoned in time he would have enemies among the gathered guests, and he hoped they would not be many. His jest brought laughter to the room. Phaulkon was pleased with himself, not with pride, but with satisfaction, like the trickster standing on a street corner who removed his hat and let a white dove fly away. Still, he couldn’t help feeling that this might not be real, that it might end as strangely as it began. There was the thought that someone out there might recognize him, and this bothered him. It may have been preposterous that he would feel this way, for who could possibly remember a ragged shipwrecked sailor, one of a crowd of men amongst the countless hundreds of drifters that descended upon the city. But he had his reason to feel the way he did. Buried deep in his breast was the memory of that dreadful, god-awful prison, and he wanted no part of it again. He studied with caution each face that came before him. They came singly and in pairs, some with handshakes, others with cupped hands, and still others who bowed graciously. He had to form assessments quickly. McManus he had already met, but with men like Samuel Potts whom he had heard so much about, he had to be discreet. He was cautious of the French officers in uniform, and the Dutch merchants with their air of superiority. He knew the manners and foibles of the Arabs in their long robes. He spoke kindly to the Catholic priests, lauded the Chinese merchants and praised the Japanese men in their splendid silk robes. Phaulkon would hardly remember all their names let alone their faces, but among all those people he met that night, he was most intrigued by one man in particular. He was Japanese. He stood out like a goldfish in a pond of guppies. He was dressed as a samurai, with a scowl upon his face like he had just beheaded his enemy, but he was without his sword.