by Wilbur Smith
“Where did you find it?” Tom asked ingenuously.
“An officer of the VOC found it lying beside the tracks of four wagons that left the colony near the headwaters of the Gariep river and headed north into the wilderness.”
Tom shook his head. “I cannot explain it.” He tugged his beard. “Can you, Dorian?”
“In March last year we sold one of the old lumber wagons to that Hottentot hunter, what was his name? Oompie? He said he was going to find ivory in the desert lands.”
“My sacred oath!” Tom exclaimed. “I had forgotten that.”
“Did you get a receipt for the sale?” Keyser looked frustrated.
“Old Oompie cannot write,” Dorian murmured.
“So, then, let us get this clear. You never travelled with four heavily laden wagons to the borders of the colony, and you did not hand these wagons over to the fugitive from justice, James Courtney. And you never encouraged and abetted this runaway to flee the borders of the colony without VOC sanction. Is that what you are telling me?”
“That is correct.” Tom looked him steadily in the eyes across the table. Keyser grinned with triumph and glanced at Governor van de Witten for permission to continue. He nodded his agreement, and Keyser clapped his hands again. The double doors swung open and two uniformed VOC corporals entered, dragging between them a human figure.
For a moment neither Tom nor Dorian recognized him. He wore only a pair of breeches that were filthy with dried blood and his own excrement. The nails had been plucked from his toes and fingers with blacksmith’s tongs. His back had taken the lash until it was a bloody pulp. His face was swollen grotesquely. One eye was closed completely, and the other a mere slit in the bloated purple flesh.
“A pretty sight.” Keyser smiled. Governor van de Witten held a small sachet of dried herbs and flower petals to his nose. “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency.” Keyser noticed the gesture. “Animals must be treated as such.” He turned back to Tom. “You know this man, of course. He is one of your wagon drivers.”
“Sonnie!” Tom started up, then thought better of it and sank back into his chair. Dorian looked distressed. Sonnie was one of their best men, when he was sober. He had been missing from High Weald for over a week, and they had presumed that he had gone off on one of his periodic binges, from which he always returned reeking of bhang, cheap brandy and even cheaper women, but chastened, apologetic and swearing on the grave of his father that it would not happen again.
“Ah, yes!” Keyser said. “You do know him. He has been telling us interesting details of your movements, and those of your family. He says that last September two of your wagons led by Mijnheer Dorian Courtney’s son, Mansur, set off along the coastal road to the north. This I can substantiate, because I led a full troop of my own men to follow those wagons. I now know that this was a diversion to draw my attention away from the other matters of more consequence.” Keyser looked at Dorian. “I am sad that a fine lad like Mansur should have become embroiled in this sordid affair. He also must face the consequence of his actions.” It was said lightly, but the threat was undisguised.
Both Courtney brothers remained silent. Tom could not look at Sonnie, lest he lose his temper and self-control. Sonnie was a free spirit who, despite his multitudinous failings, stood high in his affections, and Tom felt paternally responsible for him.
Keyser turned his attention back to Tom. “This man has also told us that soon after the two decoy wagons left High Weald, and when you were sure that my troops had followed them, you and Mevrouw Courtney slipped away with four other heavily loaded wagons, a large number of horses and other animals to the Gariep river. You waited there for some weeks, and eventually your son, James Courtney, and the escaped female prisoner came out of the mountains to join you. You handed over the wagons and the animals to them. They made good their escape into the wilderness, and you returned with assumed innocence to the colony.”
Keyser leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over the buckle of his sword belt. The room was silent, until Sonnie blurted out, “I am sorry, Klebe.” His voice was indistinct for his lips were cut and crusted with half-healed scabs, and there were black holes in the front of his mouth where two of his front teeth had been knocked out. “I did not want to tell them, but they beat me. They said they would kill me, then do the same to my children.”
“It is not your fault, Sonnie. You only did what any man would do.”
Keyser smiled and inclined his head towards Tom. “You are magnanimous, Mijnheer. If I were in your place I would not be so understanding.”
Governor van de Witten intervened: “Can we be rid of this fellow now, Colonel?” he asked irritably. “His stink is atrocious, and he is dripping blood and other less salubrious fluids on to my floor.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency. He has served his purpose.” He nodded at the uniformed warders and waved them away. They dragged Sonnie out through the doors, and closed them as they left.
“If you set bail for him, I will pay it and take that poor wretch back to High Weald with me,” Tom said.
“That presupposes that the two of you are going back to High Weald,” Keyser pointed out. “But, alas, even if you were, I could not allow you to take the witness with you. He must remain in the castle dungeons until your son James and the escaped prisoner are brought to trial in front of the governor.” He unclasped his fingers and leaned forward. The smile faded and his expression became hard, his eyes cold and fierce. “And until your own part in these matters has been made clear.”
“Are you arresting us?” Tom asked. “On the unsubstantiated testimony of a Hottentot wagon driver?” Tom looked at Governor van de Witten. “Your Excellency, under article 152 of the Criminal Procedure Act, laid down by the governors in Amsterdam, no slave or native may give evidence against a free burgher of the colony.”
“You have missed your vocation, Mijnheer. Your grasp of the law is impressive.” Van de Witten nodded. “Thank you for bringing the Act to my attention.” He stood up and walked on those thin black-hosed legs to the stained-glass windows. He folded his arms over his pigeon chest and stared out at the bay. “I see both your ships have returned to port.”
Neither brother answered this remark. It was superfluous. The two Courtney vessels were clearly visible from where he stood, lying at anchor off the foreshore. They had come into the bay in convoy two days previously, and had not yet offloaded. The Maid of York and the Gift of Allah were lovely schooners. They had been built in the yards at Trincomalee to Tom’s own design. They were fast and handy, with shallow draught and well armed, perfect for inshore work, trading into estuaries and the shallows of a dangerous and hostile coast.
Sarah had been born in York and Tom had named one vessel for her. Dorian and Yasmini had chosen the name for the other ship.
“A lucrative voyage?” van de Witten asked. “Or so I hear.”
Tom smiled thinly. “We thank the Lord for what we have had, but for a little more we would be glad.”
Van de Witten acknowledged the witticism with an acidic smile, and returned to his chair. “You ask if you are under arrest. The answer, Mijnheer Courtney, is no.” He shook his head. “You are a pillar of our small society, a gentleman of the highest reputation, industrious and hardworking. You pay your taxes. Technically you are not a free Dutch burgher, but a citizen of a foreign nation. However, you pay your residence-licence fees and, as such, you are entitled to the equivalent rights of a burgher. I would not even think of arresting you.” It was clear from Colonel Keyser’s expression that in fact deep consideration had been given to the possibility.
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Tom rose to his feet, and Dorian followed his example. “Your good opinion means a great deal to us.”
“Please, Mijnheeren!” Van de Witten held up his hand to delay them. “There are some other small matters that we should discuss before you go.” They sat down again.
“I would not want either of you, or any member of
your family, to leave the colony without my express permission until this matter is fully resolved. That includes your son, Mansur Courtney, who was responsible for deliberately drawing out a troop of the VOC cavalry on a fruitless expedition to the northern borders of the colony.” He stared at Dorian. “Do I make myself clear?” Dorian nodded.
“Is that all, Your Excellency?” Tom asked, with exaggerated politeness.
“No, Mijnheer. Not quite all. I have determined that you should place with me a nominal surety to ensure that you and your family abide by the conditions I have imposed.”
“Just how nominal?” Tom braced himself to hear the response.
“One hundred thousand guilders.” Van de Witten picked up the decanter of honey-golden Madeira wine. He came round the table to refill their spiral-stemmed glasses. A heavy silence hung over the room. “I will make allowance for the fact you are foreigners and perhaps you did not understand me.” Van de Witten resumed his seat. “I will repeat myself. I require a surety of one hundred thousand guilders from you.”
“That is a great deal of money,” Tom said at last.
“Yes, I would think it should be sufficient.” The governor nodded. “But a relatively modest sum when we take into consideration the profits of your last trading voyage.”
“I will need some time to raise that amount in cash,” Tom said. His face was almost impassive; a slight tic of one eyelid was all that betrayed his agitation.
“Yes, I understand that,” van de Witten agreed. “However, while you are making provision for the surety, you should take into consideration that your residence-licence renewal fee is also due for payment within a few weeks. It would be just as well if you paid both amounts at the same time.”
“An additional fifty thousand guilders,” Tom said, trying to hide his dismay.
“No, Mijnheer. On account of these unforeseen circumstances I have had to reconsider the amount of the residence licence. It has been increased to one hundred thousand guilders.”
“That is piracy,” Tom snapped, losing his temper for the instant, then recovering it at once. “I beg you pardon, Your Excellency. I withdraw that remark.”
“You should know about pirates, Mijnheer Courtney.” Van de Witten sighed mournfully. “Your own grandfather was executed for that crime.” He pointed through the bay windows. “Out there on the parade-ground within sight of this very room. We must pray that no other member of your family meets the same tragic end.” The threat was implicit, but it lay across the quiet room like the shadow of the gallows.
Dorian intervened for the first time: “A fee of one hundred thousand on top of the surety deposit will beggar our company.”
Van de Witten turned to him. “I think that you still misunderstand me,” he said sadly. “The fee for your brother’s family residence is one hundred thousand and for your family an additional one hundred thousand. Then you must add to that the surety for good behaviour.”
“Three hundred thousand!” Tom exclaimed. “That is not possible.”
“I am sure it is!” van de Witten contradicted him. “As a last resort you could always sell your ships and the contents of your warehouse. That will surely bring in the full amount.”
“Sell the ships?” Tom leaped to his feet. “What madness is this? They are the blood and bones of our company.”
“I assure you it is not madness.” Van de Witten shook his head and smiled at Colonel Keyser. “I think you should explain the position to these gentlemen.”
“Certainly, Your Excellency.” Keyser hoisted himself out of his chair and swaggered to the window. “Ah, good! Just in time to illustrate the point.”
On the beach below the ramparts of the castle two platoons of VOC soldiers were drawn up. The bayonets were fixed on their muskets, and they carried full packs. Their green uniform jackets stood out sharply against the white sands. As Tom and Dorian watched they began to embark in two open lighters at the edge of the water, wading out knee-deep to reach them.
“I am taking the precaution of placing guards on board both your ships,” Keyser announced, “merely to ensure your compliance with Governor van de Witten’s edict.” Keyser settled back in his chair again. “Until further notice, both of you will report every day before the noon gun to my headquarters to reassure me that you have not left the colony. Of course, as soon as you can produce a receipt from the treasury for the full amount you owe, and a passport from Governor van de Witten, you will be free to leave. I fear, however, that it might not be so easy to return next time.”
“Well, perhaps we have overstayed our welcome,” Tom said, and beamed round the room. The family was seated in the counting-house of the High Weald godown.
Sarah Courtney tried to show her disapproval in sternness, but an expression of resignation was not entirely hidden by her lowered lids. He will never cease to amaze me, this husband of mine, she thought. He revels in circumstances that would devastate other men.
“I think Tom is right.” Dorian joined in between puffs on his hookah. “We Courtneys have always been voyagers on the oceans and wanderers on the continents. Twenty years in one spot on this earth is too long.”
“You are talking about my home,” Yasmini protested, “the place where I have spent half my life, and where my only son was born.”
“We will find both you and Sarah another home, and give you both more sons, if that is what will make you happy,” Dorian promised.
“You are as bad as your brother,” Sarah rounded on him. “You don’t understand a woman’s heart.”
“Or her mind.” Tom chuckled. “Come now, my sweeting, we cannot stay here to be beggared by van de Witten. You have been forced to up sticks and run before. Don’t you remember how we had to clear out of Fort Providence at five minutes’ notice when Zayn al-Din’s men came calling?”
“I shall never forget it. You threw my harpsichord overboard to lighten the ship so we could clear the sandbars at the mouth of the river.”
“Ah, but I bought you another,” Tom said, and they all glanced across the room to the triangular instrument standing against the inner wall. Sarah stood up and crossed to it. She opened the lid of the keyboard, took her seat on the stool and played the opening bars of “Spanish Ladies.” Tom hummed the chorus.
Abruptly Sarah closed the lid, and stood up. There were tears in her eyes. “That was long ago, Tom Courtney, when I was a silly young girl.”
“Young? Yes. Silly? Never!” Tom went to her quickly and placed an arm round her shoulders.
“Tom, I am too old to start all over again,” she whispered.
“Nonsense, you are as young and strong as you ever were.”
“We will be destitute,” Sarah mourned. “Beggars and homeless wanderers.”
“If you think that, you do not know me as well as you think you do.” Still holding her fondly he looked at his brother. “Shall we show them, Dorry?”
“There will be no peace for us if we do not.” Dorian shrugged. “They are scolds and martinets, these women of ours.”
Yasmini leaned over and tugged his curling red beard. “I have always been a dutiful Muslim wife to you, al-Salil.” She used his Arabic name, the Drawn Sword. “How dare you accuse me of disrespect? Recant at once or you shall be deprived of all favours and privileges until next Ramadan comes round.”
“You are so lovely, full moon on my life. You grow sweeter and more docile with each day that passes.”
“I shall take that as a recantation.” She smiled and her great dark eyes glowed at him.
“Enough!” cried Tom. “This dispute tears apart our family and our hearts.” They all laughed, even the women, and Tom seized the advantage. “You know that Dorian and I were never such fools as to trust that gang of footpads and cutpurses who make up the board of governors of the VOC,” he said.
“We always knew that we were in this colony under sufferance,” Dorian went on. “The Dutch looked upon us as milch cows. For the last twenty years they have been sucking our ud
ders dry.”
“Well, not entirely dry,” Tom demurred, and went to the bookcase at the far end of the room, which reached from floor to ceiling. “Lend a hand here, brother,” he said, and Dorian went to help him. The bookcase, filled with heavy leatherbound tomes, was set on steel rollers cunningly concealed beneath the dark wooden skirting-board. With both of them shoving at one end, it slid aside, with squealing protest from the rollers, to reveal a small door in the back wall, barred with iron crossbolts and locked with an enormous bronze padlock.
Tom lifted down a book, whose spine was embossed in gold leaf Monsters of the Southern Oceans. He opened the covers; in the hollowed-out interior lay a key.
“Bring the lantern,” he told Sarah, as he turned the key in the padlock, shot back the bolts and opened the door.
“How did you keep this from us over all these years?” Sarah demanded.
“With the greatest difficulty.” Tom took her hand, and led her into a tiny room, not much bigger than a cupboard. Dorian and Yasmini followed. There was barely enough space for them all and the stack of small wooden chests piled neatly against the far wall.
“The family fortune,” Tom explained. “The profits of twenty years. We did not have the reckless courage or the lack of good sense to entrust it to the Bank of Batavia, which is owned by our old friends in Amsterdam, the VOC.” He opened the top chest, which was packed to the brim with small canvas bags. Tom handed one of the bags to each of the women.
“So heavy!” Yasmini exclaimed, and nearly dropped hers.
“An’t nothing heavier,” Tom agreed.
When Sarah opened the mouth of the bag she held she gasped. “Gold coins? All three chests filled with gold?”
“Naturally, my sweeting. We pay our expenses in silver, and keep the profits in gold.”
“Tom Courtney, you are a dark horse. Why did you never tell us of this hoard?”
“There was never a reason until now.” He laughed. “The knowledge would have made you discontent, but now it has taken a weight off your heart.”