by Alex Scarrow
They are perfectly happy, do you see, Sal?
She nodded. She did see that. And, even though this world was inevitably doomed to gradually get worse and worse, there was still a decade or two of relatively stable normality for this girl and her parents. A normal family life. Because … Sal was convinced of this now … the one memory she had in her head that was false – that didn’t seem to fit with all the rest – was the memory of her death. It was almost as if that last moment of her life was bolted on to the complete memory of a thirteen-year-old girl.
Perhaps Saleena Vikram didn’t die in a fire and a collapsed building just over a year from now? Maybe that fire never happened. Maybe she’ll go on to live another forty, fifty years … then, as an old woman, die like everyone else when that virus finally happens.
I don’t think you want to do what you were planning.
Her nagging voice was right. She realized she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t do what was needed if she wanted to replace the girl. Even if she could do the deed, Papaji would know his little girl was not right, had changed somehow. Sal could never imagine herself being that happy, that carefree. It would be an act at best. A sham. All that had happened to her in the last year – because it all added up to that by now, surely – made her a wholly different person to this girl.
Sal tugged her hood up for warmth: the evening was getting cool now.
Saleena is who you should be … not what you are, Sal. You’re damaged goods now. With all that you’ve seen, all that you know about the future, do you honestly think you can be that carefree and happy girl? I don’t think so. What’s more, you’re not even properly human. You can’t be her.
Those words hurt. But they were also right.
You’ll never be that girl, Sal.
She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. She knew that now. It didn’t need saying.
But you can do something.
‘What?’
Make sure Saleena Vikram and her papaji and mamaji have a life.
Sal frowned, trying to make sense of that.
If you can’t live her life, then you can make sure she does, Sal. Wouldn’t that be something? To know that somewhere a version of you will have everything you’ve ever wanted. A family. A normal life.
Chapter 61
1667, San Geronimo, Puerto Bello
They advanced towards the fog, Liam, Rashim and the other able-bodied men of their raiding party. Liam pulled his neckerchief over his mouth and nose to filter out the fine abrasive particles of coral dust swirling around him.
The wooden scaffold frame was now an uneven bed of shattered lumber; the ground was painted white as if a snow cloud had passed over this slope. They picked their way over sharp-edged rubble, shattered blocks of brittle coral that scratched and cut at ankles and shins.
The front wall was entirely gone, replaced with a bed of white granules and glistening boulders that resembled the crumbling ice skirt of a retreating glacier. And, among all the white, here, there, the odd splash of dark crimson and the pale, dust-coated parts of bodies lacerated, minced, by countless spinning razors of coral.
Rashim led the way through the thinning clouds of dust into the fort’s main compound towards some low-roofed buildings beyond, while Liam found himself squatting down amid the rubble. At his feet, the head and shoulders of Captain Garcia emerged from the debris. Quite dead. He wiped some of the chalk-white powder from the man’s face.
‘Stupid,’ he whispered softly, stroking the dust away from his glazed, open eyes. ‘Stupid.’
A heroic and utterly pointless death that would never even make a footnote let alone the main text of a history book. No. Such mentions were reserved for kings, princes, dukes, lords; stupid aristocrats dreaming vainly of glory and leading nameless men to needless ends.
‘This, Captain Garcia?’ He shook his head. ‘This? Just to protect a rich Spanish king’s stash of gold?’ And, what’s more, it was stolen gold and silver. Not even King Philip’s. Not really. Stolen from countless minor Incan chieftains. A European king’s loot.
Just then Liam heard voices calling out. Someone wolf-whistled. A man broke into hearty singing that spread to some others.
‘Mr O’Connor, sir!’ someone called out. ‘You should see this, sir!’
‘Liam! My God! Over here!’ Rashim’s voice.
Liam stood up, picked his way out of the rubble into the compound. On the far side, beneath a partially staved-in sunshade of terracotta tiles that had cascaded down and shattered on the ground, Rashim stood in the archway of an entrance to a single-storey building. Two thick oak doors strengthened with iron braces hung wide open allowing the midday sun to sweep into a dark, windowless interior. Liam made his way over until he stood just outside.
‘The strongroom?’
Rashim’s grin was almost too much for him to bear right now. He was chuckling like a naughty boy; like a sweet-toothed glutton who’d just discovered a vault full of chocolate. ‘Oh yes … oh good God, yes! Go on in, Liam … go take a look!’
Stepping into the shadows inside, he could hear the scrape and heavy metallic jingle of hands stirring, scooping through coins, muted gasps and stifled cries of shock and joy. His eyes adjusted to the interior gloom and finally he could make out a little more detail. A long, narrow room lined with thick oak and iron caskets, several of which had already been prised open. He approached one. Kwami was beside it, looking goggle-eyed down at a glinting mound of doubloons. Easily a ton of Incan silver in that one casket alone had already been melted down and recast as thick, wide discs of Spanish coin, each one shimmering back at Liam the surly, humourless profile of Philip IV of Spain.
Rashim joined him. ‘I think we just hit the mother lode, Liam.’ He placed a friendly hand on Liam’s shoulder. ‘I think we have just made ourselves richer than the governor of Jamaica himself.’
Chapter 62
1667, Port Royal, Jamaica
‘Looks like yer got yerself a welcoming party,’ said Old Tom, pointing towards the north wharf of Port Royal.
Rashim pulled his spyglass out, extended it and put it to his eye. Through the lens, close-up images of the wharfside danced unevenly as the Pandora swayed gently as she moved from the choppier waters of the open sea into the calmer waters of Port Royal harbour sheltered by the Palisadoes spit.
The bucking image danced along several merchant ships tied up, loading or unloading bales of trade goods, past the low, half-submerged fences of a turtle crawl, back again on to the tree-trunk thick support struts of a jetty, then finally on to a blur of startling crimson and crisp white. Soldiers standing to attention in two tidy ranks on the jetty. Beside them he spotted Sir Thomas’s carriage, the door open and a stockinged leg caught in the sunlight leaking inside.
‘Someone must have spotted our approach,’ said Rashim. ‘We’ve got Modyford and an honour guard waiting for us.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Rashim passed Liam the spyglass. ‘Oh yeah … lazy bugger! Letting his men roast in the sun while he slobs out in the shade?’
‘Privilege of rank.’ Rashim adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. ‘It’s what I’d do.’
‘Still … ’ Liam passed the spyglass back. ‘Nice of the fella to make an effort, I s’pose.’
‘Sirs? A point of caution if I may …?’
Rashim and Liam looked at Old Tom. ‘What is it?’
‘Might it not be best to keep our Negroes below decks?’
Liam turned to look at the main deck. John Shoe, Kwami and the other black men were quite noticeable lining the ship’s rail along with the others, hooting and waving their caps excitedly.
‘He’s right, Rashim. We should probably hustle them out of sight.’ Liam was expecting a quick, compliant nod from his partner; after all, confrontation, making a stand on a point of moral principle, wasn’t exactly his strong point.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Let them stay.’
‘Huh?’
‘Let them stay. Let Modyford see them.’
‘What? He’ll go mad! Those are his slaves!’
‘Then we will buy them off him.’ Rashim’s grin was loose and mischievous. ‘We could probably buy this whole port, Liam.’
‘Yes, yes, we probably could, but … ’
‘We’re rich, Liam. Ridiculously rich. And that makes us powerful and –’
‘We’re rich only while we have those silver and gold coins in our hold.’ Rashim glanced at him quickly. The point was clearly not wasted on him. The loot was theirs right now, but what was to stop Sir Thomas ordering his honour guard to board their ship and help himself to it?
‘Hmmm. Perhaps a little caution should be exercised, then,’ said Rashim. ‘Tom?’
‘Skipper?’
‘Have someone row over to the Maddy Carter and tell them to hold their position in the harbour until they hear otherwise.’
‘Right y’are, sir!’
The loot – just under half a million pieces of eight – was split between the two ships, in case one of them floundered. Rashim’s paranoia at work there.
‘So, what’re you thinking?’ asked Liam.
‘We shall tie up and, I suppose, uh … address the slave issue.’ He jutted his bearded chin out. ‘I’m certainly not going to hand them back. Far as I’m concerned, they’re crew. They’re my men now. Not his cattle.’
‘That’s admirable enough.’ Liam looked again at the approaching wharf and the soldiers, perhaps thirty of them, standing to attention. ‘But he’s brought them soldiers along for a reason, Rashim. I think we’ve got a problem.’
‘Relax. I’ll talk him down. He will have a decent price for his slaves and a very nice twenty per cent of our haul.’ Rashim flashed white teeth at him from the dark nest of bristles on his chin. ‘He’s going to be a very happy gentleman this morning.’
‘All the same, let’s have our lads ready for a scrap … just in case.’
‘No, we’ll be fine.’
Liam looked at him. ‘Seriously … Rashim, let’s have some muskets loaded and to hand. Just in case?’
For a moment, just for a moment, Liam saw a flicker of irritation, perhaps even anger, cross his face.
‘Remind me. Who’s the captain here?’
‘We are, Rashim. Both of us. Remember?’
‘Hmmm … well now, technically speaking, I am the captain. The men elected me, Liam, not you, to lead this –’
‘Rashim, this probably isn’t the best time for us to be squabbling about who’s the big boss fella, OK? I’m just saying let’s be a little prepared, huh? For any eventuality?’
The irritation lingered on his face a moment longer then finally melted away to be replaced with a rueful half-smile. ‘Yes, yes … maybe you are right.’ He nodded vaguely apologetically. ‘Would you see to that, then?’
‘Aye.’ Liam turned and headed down the ladder to the main deck to organize the loading and discreet, out-of-sight-but-easily-to-hand distribution of their supply of muskets. It would have been better if Pasquinel was aboard this ship, but instead he was on the Maddy Carter. All the same, there were at least seven men that he knew were half-decent shots and cool-headed in a moment of heat. He picked them out of the cheering, hooting, waving mob gathered along the waist of the ship, tapped them lightly on the shoulder and quickly explained that this morning’s triumphant homecoming might possibly get a tad hairy.
The Pandora’s sails dropped and, as the last of her gentle momentum brought her in to rest a dozen yards short of the wooden wharf, lines were tossed ashore fore and aft. Two teams of dock workers grabbed them and hauled together with chorused ‘hoys’, bringing the ship closer in. Close enough for a long boarding plank to be raised from the wharf to be rested across and tied to the rail of the Pandora’s low waist.
As they finished securing the boarding ramp, Liam finished passing out the loaded muskets. ‘Keep it out of sight,’ he whispered to each man. ‘Only on my command, all right?’
‘Sir Thomas!’ Rashim called out from the afterdeck. ‘You’ll be pleased to know the raid on Puerto Bello was a magnificent success!’
Modyford finally emerged from his carriage into the sun. He adjusted his wig, squinted up at the ship’s rail then muttered something to the captain of his guard. Then he acknowledged Rashim.
‘Captain Anwar,’ he called up. ‘Good to have you back.’
Liam thought he detected an icy tone in the man’s voice.
‘So? Is there no invitation to be extended for me to come aboard?’
Rashim nodded. ‘Uh … yes, yes, of course. Please! Come on up.’
‘Why, thank you!’ Modyford nodded courteously. ‘Lead the way if you will, Lieutenant Hamshaw.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The surly officer barked an order to his men. They quickly clambered up the boarding ramp and dropped down over the rail on to the ship’s main deck, forming a protective, outward-facing circle, their muskets – bayonets already fitted – held ready at hip height.
Sir Thomas Modyford slowly climbed the plank and Lieutenant Hamshaw offered him a hand as he clambered awkwardly down on to the deck.
Rashim climbed down the ladder and approached the soldiers warily. ‘Uh, Sir Thomas, is this … er … is this entirely necessary?’ He tried to inject a little levity into his voice. ‘After all, come on, we’re business partners here, right?’
Modyford bristled at the overfamiliarity. ‘I, sir, am not generally in the habit of conjoining my business affairs with common thieves, liars, scoundrels.’
Liam caught Rashim’s eye. Be careful, fella. He suspected something must have happened while they were away.
Something’s changed here.
‘Thieves … did you say, Sir Thomas?’
‘You heard me correctly, man. Damned bloody thieves!’
Liam glanced around at his hand-picked men. Eyes on him from various corners, nooks and crannies around the edge of the deck, wanting to know what next. Now?
‘You have stolen property of mine aboard your ships.’ Modyford picked out one of the crew standing nearby. ‘You! Negro! Show me your arm!’
The man looked terrified. He shook his head frantically, but Sir Thomas was in no mood for that. He strode across the deck, grabbed the man roughly by his wrist and lifted the loose sleeve of his smock. ‘There! My mark!’ He turned to glare at Rashim. ‘You, sir! You distinctly assured me the Negroes in this crew were Spanish slaves!’
‘I was … I must have been mistaken, Sir Thomas.’
‘Mistaken? No, sir … you lied!’
Rashim tried levity again. ‘Oh well … ’ He chuckled nervously. ‘What’s a little fib between friends, eh?’
Oh no … Liam shook his head … not the right approach.
‘WHAT!’ roared Modyford. ‘Good Lord, you are no friend of mine! You are certainly no associate or business partner of mine either! You are a thief, sir! What’s more, you and your crew are guilty of acts of piracy –’
‘Piracy? But … but we have a letter of marque signed by yourself, sir –’
‘You have no such thing!’ Modyford turned quickly towards Lieutenant Hamshaw. ‘Lieutenant?’
‘Sir?’
‘Arrest this man!’
Liam took in a sharp breath. ‘To your arms!’
Across the deck a dozen men moved quickly, accompanied by the metallic rattle and scrape of guns being scooped out of hiding places, shouldered and levelled at the soldiers. Hamshaw barked a response. ‘Present and aim!’ The soldiers likewise shouldered their muskets, picking out those crew holding weapons.
‘Make your aim the governor!’ shouted Liam.
Modyford’s eyes bulged with alarm as musket barrels shifted towards him. ‘What the devil is this?’
‘If anyone fires a gun this morning, Sir Thomas,’ said Liam, ‘more than likely at least one shot’s going to find its way to you!’
Modyford was gasping urgently, hyperventilating his panic out with long, wheezy, rattling puffs of air. Liam noticed a dark patch spreading across h
is breeches.
‘Sir, my men have their mark! On your command, sir?’
‘NO! Hold! H-hold fast!’
The main deck was a crowded and complex sculpture. It reminded Liam of a period painting of some famous naval battle, a freeze-frame image from history. Silent except for the ragged breathing of several dozen men close enough to each other that every fired gun was guaranteed to hit someone.
Stalemate.
‘May I suggest,’ Rashim offered, ‘that you and your men go back the way you came and leave the shi–’
‘I will pardon any man, right now, who lowers their aim!’ shouted Modyford. ‘A pardon! Do you hear?’
‘I said, get off the ship!’ Rashim replied sharply. ‘Now!’
Perhaps in that moment, if a sudden unexpected sharp puff of air hadn’t ruffled the sails above them, the loose sleeves of linen smocks, the light silk of scarves and lace ruffs of those standing stock-still, then events might just have unfolded very differently.
In the split second before the first twitchy, sweaty finger reacted in panic to the sudden gust and the first musket erupted, Liam thought he saw in his peripheral vision an odd shimmering in the air. But that was forgotten the moment the first plume of grey-blue gun smoke ballooned across the narrow deck.
There was a cacophony of muskets discharging. Liam felt a shot whisk past his cheek out of the fog; heard the gasped ooff of someone in the smoke being hit in the chest, the scream of another man, the cry of alarm of another.
The peal of gunfire diminished, but the smoke hung heavy all around them. Liam could already hear the rattle of musket balls tumbling down upended barrels, the frantic scraping sound of ramrods. Lieutenant Hamshaw barking an order for his men to form up on him. Modyford screaming in panic. The clatter and ring of a cutlass parried by some soldier’s bayonet.
The smoke thinned into ghostly swirls and through it Liam could see the fight had become a push and shove mêlée over the squirming bodies of those who’d been caught in the volley fire. This close to each other, no one was going to have time to completely recharge their gun. The rest of their crew had decided to throw themselves into the fight with every available weapon to hand: hatchets, knives, boarding axes and winch handles.