by Wilbur Smith
A broken wave came tumbling to meet them, but its main force was spent. Without hesitation Drumfire gathered his forefeet under his chest and leapt over the leading edge of white water as though he were jumping a fence. When he splashed in on the other side, it was already too deep for his hoofs to find the bottom. He began to swim, and Jim slid off his back and wove his fingers into the horse’s mane. With his free hand on the stallion’s neck he guided him towards the wallowing wreck.
Drumfire swam like an otter, his legs pumping in a mighty rhythm beneath the surface. He had gone twenty yards before the next tall wave struck, and burst over them, submerging them.
The girl on the wreck stared in horrified fascination, and even the watchers on the beach were silenced as they searched for a sign of them in the swirling aftermath of the wave’s passage. Then a shout went up as their heads appeared through the foam. They had been washed back half the distance gained, but the stallion was swimming strongly—and the girl could hear him snorting the seawater from his nostrils with each breath. Jim’s long black hair was sleeked down his face and shoulders. She could hear his cries faint in the thunder of waters: “Come, Drumfire. Ha! Ha!”
They swam on through the icy green seas, swiftly making up the distance lost. Another wave came in but they swam up and over the crest, and now they were almost half-way across the gap between shore and ship. The girl stood up and balanced precariously on the heaving hull, gathering herself for the leap over the side.
“No!” Jim yelled up at her. “Not yet! Wait!” He had seen the next wave humping up against the horizon. This one dwarfed all those that had come before it. Its cliff-like face seemed to be carved from solid green malachite, laced with white spume. As it came on in ponderous majesty it blocked out half of the sky.
“Hold hard, Louisa!” Jim shouted, as the mighty wave crashed into the ship, and smothered her. It left her submerged in its wake. Then it gathered itself again like a predator pouncing on its prey. For long seconds horse and rider swam up its curling front. They were a pair of insects trapped on a wall of green glass. Then the face of the wave toppled forward, curling over them and falling in a solid avalanche as it crashed down on itself with such weight and power that the men on the beach felt the earth jump beneath their feet. Horse and rider were gone, driven so deeply under that surely they could never surface again.
The watchers who, only seconds before, had clamoured to see the storm prevail and its victims perish, now stood smitten with dread, waiting for the impossible to happen, for the heads of that gallant horse and his rider to reappear through the wild surf. Then the water subsided around the ship and as it poured away they saw the girl still lying on the hull, the loose ropes of the rigging holding her from being sucked over the side. She lifted her head and, with the water streaming from her long hair, searched desperately for any sign of horse and man. The seconds drew on and became minutes. Another wave crashed in, then another, but they were not as high and powerful as the one that had buried horse and rider.
Louisa felt despair settle on her. It was not for herself that she feared. She knew she was about to die, but her own life did not seem to matter any more. Instead she grieved for the young stranger who had given his own trying to save her. “Jim!” she pleaded. “Please don’t die.”
As if in response to her call, the two heads burst out through the surface. The undertow of the great wave that had pinned them under had also sucked them back almost to where they had disappeared.
“Jim!” she screamed, and leaped to her feet. He was so close that she could see the agony that contorted his face in the effort to draw breath, but he looked up at her, and tried to say something. Perhaps it was a farewell, but then she knew in her heart that this was not a man who would ever surrender, not even to death. He was trying to shout a command, but his breath only whistled and gurgled in his throat. The horse was swimming again, but when it tried to turn its head back towards the beach she saw Jim’s hand in its mane guide it back towards her. Jim was still choking and could not use his voice, but he made a gesture with his free hand, and now he was close enough for her to see the determination in his eyes.
“Jump?” she shouted, against the wind. “Shall I jump?”
He nodded his sodden curls emphatically, and she could just make out the hoarse croak of his voice: “Come!”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that, even in his distress, he had picked the slack between the waves to call her on. She threw aside the piece of rope that had saved her, took three running strides across the shattered deck and leaped over the side with her shift ballooning round her waist and her arms windmilling. She hit the water and went under, to reappear almost immediately. She struck out the way her father had taught her and swam to meet them.
Jim reached out and seized her wrist. His grip was so powerful that she thought it might crush her bones. And after what she had suffered at Huis Brabant she had thought that she would never allow a man to touch her again. But there was no time to think of that now. The next wave broke over her head, but his grip never slackened. They came up again and she was spluttering and gasping for breath, yet she seemed to feel strength flowing into her through his fingers. He guided her hand to the horse’s mane, and now he had recovered some of his voice.
“Don’t hamper him.” She understood what he meant for she knew horses, and she tried not to put her weight on the stallion’s back but to swim beside him. Now they were heading towards the beach and each wave that came up behind them carried them forward. Louisa heard voices, faint at first but growing louder every second. The spectators on the beach were caught up in the excitement of the rescue and, fickle as any mob, they were cheering them on. They all knew this horse—most of them had seen him win on Christmas Day. Jim Courtney was a well-known figure in the town: some envied him as the son of a rich man, some thought him too brash, but they all were forced to pay him respect. This was a famous battle he was waging against the sea, and most of them were sailors. Their hearts went out to him.
“Courage, Jim!”
“Power to you, lad.”
“Good on you! Swim, Jim boy, swim.”
Drumfire had felt the shore shelving under his hoofs, and lunged forward powerfully. By now Jim had recovered his breath and coughed most of the water out of his lungs. He threw one leg over the stallion’s back. As soon as he was astride he reached down and pulled Louisa up behind him. She wrapped both arms round his waist and hung on with all her strength. Drumfire burst out of the shallows, water exploding before his charge, and then they were out on the beach.
Jim saw Colonel Keyser galloping to intercept them, and urged Drumfire into full stride, swinging his head away until Keyser was trailing twenty strides behind.
“Wag, jou donder! Wait! She’s an escaped prisoner. Hand the cow over to the law.”
“I will deliver her to the castle myself,” Jim yelled, without looking back.
“No, you don’t! She’s mine. Bring the bitch back!” Keyser’s voice was thick with fury. As Jim urged Drumfire on down the beach he was determined on one thing only. He had already chanced too much ever to turn this girl over to anyone in the garrison, and in particular to Keyser. He had watched too many of the floggings and executions on the parade-ground outside the castle walls over which Keyser had presided. Jim’s own great-grandfather had been tortured and executed on that very ground after being falsely convicted of piracy on the high seas.
“They aren’t going to get this one,” he swore grimly. Her thin arms were clasped round his waist and he could feel the length of her body pressed against his naked back. Although she was half starved, wet and shivering with the cold of the green waters and the wind of Drumfire’s speed, he could sense the courage and determination in her, which matched his own.
She’s a fighter, this one. I can never let her down, he thought, and called back to her, “Hold tight, Louisa. We’re going to run the fat colonel into the dirt.” Though she did not answer and he could hear her t
eeth chattering, she tightened her grip round him and crouched low. He could feel by her balance and the way she adjusted to Drumfire’s motion that she was a horsewoman.
He glanced back under his arm, and saw that they had opened the gap on Keyser. Jim had raced against Trouwhart before and he knew the mare’s best points and her weaknesses. She was quick and game as her name, Trueheart, suggested, but Keyser overburdened her light frame. On firm, smooth going she was in her element and she probably had the legs of Drumfire out in the open, but on this soft beach sand or over rock and other heavy going, Drumfire’s great strength gave him the advantage. Although the stallion was carrying a double load, Louisa was light as a sparrow and Jim was not as heavily built as the colonel. Yet Jim knew better than to underestimate the mare. He knew she had the heart of a lioness and had almost run Drumfire down over the last half-mile of the Christmas racing.
I must pick the course to our advantage, he decided. He had ridden every inch of the ground between here and the foothills, and knew every hill and marsh, salt pan and patch of forest where Trueheart would be at a disadvantage.
“Stop, jongen, or I will shoot.” There was another shout behind and when Jim looked back, Keyser had drawn the pistol from the holster on the front of his saddle and was leaning out to avoid hitting his own horse. In that swift glance Jim saw that it was a single-barrelled weapon, and there was not a second in the holster. Jim swerved Drumfire to the left without a break in his stride, cutting sharply across the mare’s nose. In an instant he had changed Keyser’s target from a steady going-away shot to one with a sharp angle of deflection. Even an experienced soldier like the colonel, shooting from a galloping horse, would have difficulty judging the forward allowance.
Jim reached back, seized Louisa round the waist and swung her round on his off-side, tucking her under his armpit and shielding her with his own body. The pistol shot boomed out, and he felt the strike of the heavy ball. It was high in his back across his shoulders, but after the numbing shock his arms were still strong and his senses alert. He knew he was not badly wounded.
Only pricked me, he thought, and then he spoke: “That’s his one and only shot.” He said it to encourage Louisa, and swung her back into her place behind him.
“Mercy! You’re hit,” she exclaimed fearfully. Blood was streaming down his back.
“We’ll worry about that later,” he sang out. “Now Drumfire and I are going to show you a few of our tricks.” He was enjoying himself. He had just been half drowned and shot, but he was still cocky. Louisa had found herself an indomitable champion, and her spirits soared.
But they had lost ground with that evasive turn, and close behind they heard Trueheart’s hoofs slapping into the sand, and the scraping of steel in the scabbard as Keyser drew his sabre. Louisa glanced back and saw him rise up over her, standing in the stirrups with his blade held high, but the change of his balance wrong-footed the mare and she stumbled. Keyser swayed and grabbed at the pommel of his saddle to regain balance and Drumfire pulled ahead. Jim put him at the slope of the high dune, and here the stallion’s great strength came into play. He went up in a series of violent lunges with the sand spurting out from under his hoofs. Trueheart dropped back sharply as she carried the colonel’s weight up the slope.
They went over the top and slid down the far side. From the foot of the dune there was open ground and firm going to the edge of the lagoon. Louisa looked back. “They’re gaining again,” she warned Jim. Trueheart was striding out gracefully. Even though she was carrying the weight of the colonel, and all his weapons and accoutrements, she seemed to flirt with the earth.
“He’s reloading his pistol.” There was an edge of alarm in her voice. Keyser was ramming a ball into the muzzle.
“Let’s see if we can wet his powder for him,” Jim said, and they reached the edge of the lagoon and plunged in without a check.
“Swim again,” Jim ordered, and Louisa slipped into the water on Drumfire’s other flank. They both looked back as Trueheart reached the edge of the lagoon and Keyser pulled her up. He jumped down and primed the pan of his pistol. Then he cocked the hammer, and aimed at them across the open water. There was a puff of white gunsmoke. A fountain of water jumped from the surface an arm’s length behind them and, with a hum, the heavy ball ricocheted over their heads.
“Now throw your boots at us.” Jim laughed, and Keyser stamped with rage. Jim hoped that he would give up now. Surely, even in his anger, he must consider the fact that Trueheart was so heavily burdened, while they were almost naked and Drumfire’s back was bare. Keyser made the decision, and swung up on to the mare’s back. He pushed her into the water, just as Drumfire emerged on to the muddy bank on the far side. Immediately Jim turned him parallel to the shore and, keeping to the soft ground, led him along the shore at a trot.
“We must give Drumfire a chance to breathe,” he told Louisa as she ran behind him. “That swim out to the ship would have drowned any other horse.” He was watching their pursuers. Trueheart was only halfway across the lagoon. “Keyser wasted time with his pistol practice. One thing is certain, there will be no more of that. His powder is well and truly soaked by now.”
“The water washed the blood from your wound,” she told him, reaching out to touch his back lightly. “I can see now it’s a graze, not deep, thank the good Lord.”
“It’s you we have to worry about,” he said. “You’re skin and bones, not a pound of meat on you. How long can you run on those skinny legs?”
“As long as you can,” she flared at him, and angry red spots appeared on her pale cheeks.
He grinned at her unrepentantly. “You may have to prove that boast before this day is done. Keyser is across.”
Far behind them Trueheart came out on to the bank and, streaming water from his tunic, breeches and boots, Keyser mounted her and set out along the bank after them. He urged the mare into a gallop, but heavy clods of mud flew from her hoofs and it was immediately obvious that she was making heavy work of it. Jim had kept to the mud flats for just that reason, to test Trueheart’s strength.
“Up you get.” Jim seized Louisa, threw her up on to the stallion’s back and broke into a run. He kept a firm grip on Drumfire’s mane so he was pulled along, keeping pace with the horse’s easy canter while saving the animal’s strength. He kept glancing back to judge their relative speeds. He could afford to let Keyser gain a little ground now. Carrying only Louisa’s weight Drumfire was going easily, while the mare was burning up her strength in this reckless pursuit.
Within half a mile Keyser’s weight began to tell, and Trueheart slowed to a walk. She was still trailing by a half pistol-shot. Jim slowed to her speed to keep the gap constant.
“Come down, if you please, your ladyship,” he told Louisa. “Give Drumfire another breather.”
She jumped down lightly, but flashed at him, “Don’t call me that.” It was a bitter reminder of the taunts she had endured from her fellow convicts.
“Perhaps we should rather call you Hedgehog?” he asked. “The Lord knows, you have prickles enough to warrant it.”
Keyser must be almost exhausted by now, Jim thought, for he stayed in the saddle, not taking his weight off his mount. “They are almost done in,” he told Louisa. He knew that not far ahead and still on the Courtney estate lay a salt pan that they called Groot Wit—Big White. That was where he was leading Keyser.
“He’s coming on again,” Louisa warned him, and he saw that Keyser was pushing the mare into a canter. She was a game little filly, and she was responding to the whip.
“Mount!” he ordered.
“I can run as far as you can.” She shook the salt-crusted tangle of her long hair at him defiantly.
“In Jesus’s name, woman, must you always argue?”
“Must you always blaspheme?” she riposted, but she allowed him to hoist her on to the stallion’s back. They ran on. Within the mile Trueheart had slowed to a walk, and they could do the same.
“There is the b
eginning of the salt.” Jim pointed ahead and, even under the low stormclouds and in the gathering dusk, it shone like a vast mirror.
“It looks flat and hard.” She shaded her eyes against the glare.
“It looks that way, but under the crust it’s porridge. With that great fat Dutchman and all his equipment up on her back the mare will break through every few paces. It’s almost three miles across the pan. They will be completely finished before they reach the other side and…” he looked atthesky “…by then it will be dark.”
Although it was hidden by the lowering blanket of cloud the sun must have been close to the horizon and the darkness was coming on apace as Jim led Drumfire, the girl staggering beside him, off the treacherous white plain. He paused at the edge of the forest, and they both looked back.
Like a long string of black pearls Drumfire’s hoofprints were deeply scored into the smooth white surface. Even for him the crossing had been a terrible ordeal. Far behind they could just make out the small dark shape of the mare. Two hours earlier, with Keyser on her back, Trueheart had broken through the salt crust and into the quicksand beneath. Jim had stopped and watched Keyser struggle to free her. He had been tempted to turn back and help them. She was such a game, beautiful animal that he could not bear to watch her bogged down and exhausted. Then he remembered that he was unarmed and almost naked, while Keyser had his sabre and was a swordsman to be reckoned with. Jim had watched him leading his cavalry troop through their evolutions on the parade-ground outside the castle. While he hesitated Keyser had managed, by force, to drag the mare free of the mud and continue plodding in pursuit.