Chapter 4: Shopping for Necessities and Extravagances

At dinner that night I found that I had exhausted my reserves at the first conflict. My mode of attire was limited to a long and tight black skirt and a high-necked white blouse. While the blouse was relatively sheer, and I disdained a shift for a lacy corset, Siobhan countered with a rather immodestly cut dress of her own, and though her forces were not perhaps equal to mine, they were nonetheless quite sufficient for the battle at hand. An impartial referee would be charitable to describe the contest as an equal one. My Uncle proved that in such matters he preferred to be able to clearly see the combatants.

I was still able to score on a different ground, and in doing so expanded my duties from lay-about to gainfully employed. During talk after supper, my uncle declared that he had recently received a letter imploring him to invest in an ironworks in Bratislava, Slovenia. I corrected him gently, saying that Bratislava was in Slovakia, not Slovenia.

He goggled at me. “Are you sure?” He seemed quite skeptical.

“Very much so, sir. My father was stationed there briefly.”

He swore and bolted from his chair, much to the amazement of Siobhan and me. Several minutes later he returned, brandishing a letter in one hand and his spectacles in another. “I thought my eyes were giving me away again, girl, but this time you are the one mistaken!” He thrust the letter at me. “Slovenia, see?”

I glanced at the letter long enough to see that indeed it did say, ‘Bratislava, Slovenia’, but stood my ground firmly. “Mayhap the letter does say so, Uncle James, but the residents of Bratislava consider themselves Slovakians, not Slovenians.”

This quite consternated him, and he left a second time, returning shortly with a large atlas of maps. “Show me,” he demanded.

A quick check of the index led me to the correct page, and I pointed out that they were indeed two separate nations, and that Bratislava was indeed the capitol city of Slovakia.

He stared at the page for several moments, then sat back in his chair, tossing his spectacles aside. Looking at Ahkbar Singh, he said, “Drat! And to think I was actually considering this investment! Yet this fool either doesn’t know where he plans on building his factory or thinks I won’t catch on!” Ahkbar simply pondered in silence, although his facial expressions were interesting. My Uncle turned back towards me. “I am afraid my dear, that while Ahkbar and I are quite familiar with the subcontinent and Asia, and I am fairly familiar with the United States, neither of us has traveled at all in Europe. Are you at all familiar with the continent?”

“Well, on such a relative basis, I would have to say more so than you, sir. I have traveled there, at least to a certain extent with my parents, and in truth an English education does tend to concentrate more in that direction, but I am in no ways an expert.”

He slapped his palm on the table soundly, setting the crockery to rattling. “By Jove, we must talk more. I am getting reports of a number of investment opportunities in Europe of late, and here you are to help me. What say you if I make you my European secretary, with a salary to match?”

Alarmed, I tried to demure. “Please, Uncle James, as I said, I am not an expert. Surely you must have some others more qualified available?”

He shrugged my worries aside. “Quite so, in Boston and New York, but not in Saratoga. Please, you can help me more than you can imagine. They may know a good deal more, but they also charge a good deal more than I plan on paying you. Still, it will give you something to do while you plan your future, and it may well prove useful all the way around. I am willing to chance it if you are.”

“Well, on those nebulous conditions and for an indefinite term, agreed, sir.” I thrust out my hand and he shook it firmly, while Siobhan applauded my good fortune.

The next day both Siobhan and I had planned for and obtained permission to go into town and shop. We met over breakfast, and being curious how we were to get thence, were directed by the cooks to go find Uncle James and Ahkbar, presently dueling! Mystified, we sped out the door to a large pen behind one of the nearby sheds. Here, in the small fenced-in circle, surrounded by a fence upon which several of the maidservants were hanging and watching, the two men were going at each other with swords!

It became obvious in a second that this was not a real duel, but a practice. Both men were stripped to the waist, even Ahkbar had removed his coat and shirt, and despite the early morning coolness, perspiration flowed freely along their manly chests. They made quite the contrast. Uncle James was slender, with wide-set shoulders, and his musculature was hard and rangy and not at all bulky, while Mister Singh was larger in girth and musculature, although not stout but stocky. A life of hard usage showed on both forms. My uncle had several noticeable scars on his torso, beyond the one on his face. A long and jagged tear had been made in his side at one time, his right chest showed a pair of small round scars matched by another pair, obviously bullet exit marks, on his back. Ahkbar’s torso was even more amazing. Somebody had once endeavored to torture him with the lash, as his back was a latticework of long welts and scars, some healed white, others persistently reddened. In addition, both bore the marks of the morning’s exertions, with several lighter abrasions showing where they had been scored upon.

We waved as we approached, and Uncle James glanced over at us in acknowledgement. It was at that moment that Ahkbar struck most foully, kicking my uncle’s legs from beneath him. As my relation collapsed into the sawdust, Ahkbar’s sword whistled down from above, stopping only as it met the skin on the back of Uncle Jame’s neck.

“Foul! Foul!” we cried, as Uncle James threw down his sword in surrender.

In response, Ahkbar helped him to his feet, cursing him loudly in a Punjabi dialect. At my uncle’s nod in our direction, he translated. “In a real fight, allowing yourself to be so distracted will get your head mounted on a pike at the palace gate!”

“They don’t really do that, do they?” asked Siobhan. I already knew the answer, but Uncle James answered for me.

“Only if you’re very lucky,” he puffed out. “At least that way you’re already dead. I’ve seen some palace gates decorated by entire bodies up on pikes, and they were still kicking.”

I nodded. “Quite barbarous, I have been told.”

Ahkbar smiled. “Oh, yes, much worse than blowing your prisoners apart by cannon, like the English do.”

“What?” I asked.

A grinning Uncle James explained. “The English have been known on more than one occasion to remove excess prisoners by tying them across the barrels of cannons prior to battle, then lighting them off.” He held his arms out to demonstrate.

“That’s not true!” I protested.

“Quite true, child,” remarked Ahkbar.

“Damn near happened to us, eh, old friend!” concluded my uncle. Subdued, Siobhan and I asked about transportation into the town. Uncle James announced, “One more passage, then Ahkbar can run you in.” Pointing at one of the spectators, he ordered, “Go tell Jack to rig up the carriage,” then he and Mister Singh resumed their stances in the center of the small arena.

Despite the playacting characteristic of the practice duel, both men went about the affair with deadly earnest. Unlike the more formalized training taught in a fencing class, this became a knock-down, dragged-out brawl. In one instance Uncle James punched the basket hilt of his saber into Ahkbar’s stomach, only to be followed by a hearty kick to his own. This was caught and turned, only to be followed by the falling Ahkbar throwing sawdust in Uncle James’ face. This back and forth went on for several minutes before a deft move threw Ahkbar’s sword across the ring, and Uncle James’ blade was felt along the side of Ahkbar’s neck. He surrendered and they gathered their weapons, tossing them out of the pen and onto a small table.

I examined them, having often seen my father’s dress sword. Unsurprisingly, they were quite blunt and dull, but I was amazed at their weight. I could scarce lift one!

“Practice swords. You double or triple the weight to build strength and stamina. That way, if you ever have to do it for real, you can last longer and strike harder and faster,” my uncle commented.

“Have you ever had to do so?” asked a breathy Siobhan.

Uncle James paused in putting on his shirt. Pointing at the healed gash in his side, he replied, “Sumatra. Almost died, too. Fortunately, the other fellows really did die, so it all worked out in the end.” He finished with his shirt and led us outside to the carriage. Mister Singh had miraculously managed to clean himself and dress in his full ensemble in the brief time allotted.

In short order we found ourselves deposited in the town square, surrounded by chestnut- and elm-lined streets with a multitude of small shops. We spent the rest of the day, with a generous break for lunch, going from one lady’s shop to another, leaving our purchases behind to be gathered at the end of the day. I was quite astonished by the value of the sheaf of banknotes my uncle had provided me. In retrospect, I understood that the British pound sterling was the foremost currency in the world, but what this meant when translated into American money allowed me to shop for most of the morning before I had to dip into the credit my uncle had at these establishments. I utterly failed to wonder why my uncle would have credit with stores that only sold women’s clothing, especially those which specialized in lady’s fineries. Siobhan also unlocked her purse to a considerable degree, and we had a glorious time spending our monies.

I knew that in the polite battle which we were waging for Uncle James’ attentions that it would be necessary to call attention to my pair of considerable armies, and I knew Siobhan would be attempting to do the same. Still, it was a most genteel combat, and neither of us hesitated to point out to the other an especially attractive outfit. While she may have been the more experienced campaigner, I was a fast and eager cadet. I took my red rayon dress as a mere beachhead. I purchased several dresses which displayed my charms amply, in a variety of colors and fabrics, with narrow waists, low cut bodices, and bustles which were just large enough to highlight my proportions. Siobhan tried to do the same, but in this style of combat, God truly does favor the bigger battalions!