by Wilbur Smith
“How much have you and Dorry squirrelled away in here?” Yasmini asked, in wonder.
Tom knocked with his knuckles on each of the three chests in turn. “Seems all three are still full. This is the most part of our savings. In addition we have an ample collection of sapphires from Ceylon and diamonds from the fabulous Kollur mine on the Krishna river in India. They are all large stones of the first water. If not quite a king’s ransom, then at least a rajah’s.” He chuckled richly. “In truth, that is not quite all. Both our ships lying in the bay have their weighty cargoes still intact.”
“To say nothing of two platoons of VOC soldiers on board as well,” Sarah pointed out spicily, as she backed out of the concealed strongroom.
“That presents an interesting problem,” Tom admitted, as he locked the door and Dorian helped him push the bookcase back into position to cover it. “But one that is not insoluble.” He went to take his seat again, and patted the chair next to him. “Come sit beside me, Sarah Courtney. I am going to need the benefit of your sharp wit and famous erudition now.”
“I think it is time that we invited Mansur to join the family deliberations,” Dorian suggested. “He is old enough at last and, what is more, his life will be changed as profoundly as ours when we sail out of Table Bay. He will probably be distraught to be taken from his childhood home.”
“Quite right!” Tom agreed. “But now speed is everything. Our exodus must take van de Witten and Keyser by surprise. They cannot be expecting us to abandon High Weald and all its contents. There is a great deal to be seen to, but we must set ourselves a limit.” He looked up at Dorian. “Three days?”
“It will be a close-run thing.” Dorian frowned as he considered it. “But, yes, we can be ready to sail in three days.”
Those three days were filled with frenzied activity, carefully concealed from the rest of the world. It was essential that even the most trusted of their servants had no inkling of their true intentions. Loyalty did not presuppose discretion: the serving girls were notorious chatterboxes, and the chambermaids even worse. Many had romantic attachments to men in the town and a few consorted with the soldiers and petty officers in the castle. To allay any suspicions, Sarah and Yasmini put it about that the sorting and packing of clothes and furniture was merely a seasonal reordering and cleaning of the rambling homestead. In the godown Tom and Dorian conducted their annual stock-taking three months earlier than was their usual custom.
An English East Indiaman was lying at anchor in the bay, and the captain was an old and trusted friend of Tom. They had dealt with each other over the last twenty years. Tom sent him an invitation to dinner and, during the meal, swore him to secrecy and informed him of their plans to leave Good Hope. Then he sold him the entire contents of the godown at High Weald for a fraction of its real value. In return Captain Welles promised not to take possession until after the two Courtney ships had sailed from the bay. He undertook to make payment for the goods directly into the CBTC account at Mr. Coutts’s bank in Piccadilly immediately on his return to London.
The land and buildings of High Weald were held under perpetual quitrent to the VOC. Mijnheer van de Velde, another prosperous burgher of the colony, had been importuning Tom and Dorian for years to sell the estate to him.
After midnight the brothers, dressed in black, their faces covered by the brims of their hats and the collars of their greatcoats, rode across to his homestead on the banks of the Black river, and knocked on the shutters of van de Velde’s bedroom. After his initial alarm, angry shouts and threats, he came out in his nightshirt brandishing a bell-mouthed blunderbuss. He shone his lantern into their faces.
“Name of a dog, it is you!” he exclaimed, and led them into his counting-house. As the first light of dawn paled the sky and the doves cooed in the oaks outside the windows they shook hands on the bargain. Tom and Dorian signed the deed of transfer of High Weald and, grinning triumphantly, van de Velde handed over an irrevocable letter of credit drawn on the Bank of Batavia for an amount less than half of what he had been prepared to pay for it only a few months before.
On the planned evening of departure, as the sun set and the light faded, when they could not be observed from the beach or the castle walls, Mansur and a small crew rowed out to the anchored ships. Keyser had placed six Hottentot troopers under a corporal on board each. After five days at anchor, with the vessels pitching and rolling in the steep swells kicked up by the south-easter, those soldiers who were not prostrated with seasickness were bored and disenchanted with this duty. To add to their misery they could see the lights of the taverns along the beachfront and hear snatches of song and revelry drifting across the dark, wind-churned surface from the shore.
Mansur’s arrival alongside was a pleasant distraction, and they crowded the rail to exchange jests and friendly insults with him and his rowers. Mansur was a favourite of the Hottentot community in the colony. The nickname they had bestowed upon him was Specht, Woodpecker, for his fiery topknot.
“You are not allowed on board, Specht,” the corporal told him sternly. “Colonel Keyser’s orders. No visitors allowed.”
“Do not fuss yourself. I am not coming on board. I would not want to be seen in the company of such rogues and ruffians,” Mansur shouted back.
“So you say, old Specht, but then what are you doing here? You should be giving the girls in the village sewing lessons.” The corporal shouted with laughter at his own wit. The word naai had a double meaning: not only to sew but also to fornicate. Mansur’s red hair and startling good looks rendered him almost irresistible to the members of the fair sex.
“It’s my birthday,” Mansur told them, “and I have brought a present for you.” He kicked the keg of Cape brandewijn that lay in the bottom of the boat. “Send down a cargo net.” They jumped to obey, and the keg swayed up on to the deck.
The Muslim captain of the Gift of Allah came up from his cabin to protest at this devil’s brew, forbidden by the Prophet, coming on board.
“Peace be upon you, Batula,” Mansur called to him in Arabic. “These men are my friends.” Batula had been Dorian’s lance-bearer in the early days in the deserts, they had spent most of their lives together and the links between them were of iron. Batula had known Mansur from the day of his birth. He recognized Mansur’s voice and his anger abated a little. He consoled himself that all his men were believers and they would not be tempted by Satan’s liquor, unlike the kaffir soldiers.
The Hottentot corporal knocked the bung out of the brandy keg and filled a pewter mug. He took a mouthful of the neat spirits, gasped and exhaled the fumes noisily. “Yis maar!” he exclaimed. “Dis lekker! It’s so good!”
Mugs in hand his men crowded round him for their turn at the keg, but the corporal relented his former strictures and called down to Mansur, “Hey, Specht! Come on board and share a cup.”
Mansur waved an apology as they pulled away and headed for the other ship. “Not now, perhaps later. I have another present for your men on the Maid of York.”
Sarah and Yasmini had been strictly charged by their husbands to restrict their luggage to two large travelling trunks each. Tom absolutely forbade Sarah to try to smuggle her harpsichord on to the ship. As soon as the men were occupied elsewhere, the two goodwives had the servants load their ten large chests on to the waiting cart, and the harpsichord sat four-square on top of this abundant cargo. The wheels of the cart were splayed under the weight.
“Sarah Courtney, you astound me. I know not what to say.” Tom glared at the offending instrument when he returned.
“Then say naught, Tom, you big booby. And I shall play you the sweetest rendition of ‘Spanish Ladies’ you have ever heard when we reach the new home you shall build me.” That was his favourite song, and he stumped off in defeat to oversee the loading of the other wagons.
At this last hour it was not possible that word of their departure might reach Colonel Keyser’s ear in time for him to intervene, so the servants were assembled and Tom and
Dorian told them that the family was leaving High Weald for ever. There was not space on board the two ships for all of the servants and freed slaves that made up the High Weald household. Those who had been chosen to go with the family were given the right to refuse and stay in the colony. Not one took up that option. They were given an hour to pack. Those who were being left behind huddled in a forlorn group at the end of the wide veranda. The women were weeping softly. All the members of the Courtney family went down the line of familiar, well-beloved faces, talking to each in turn and embracing them. Tom and Dorian handed each a canvas purse, and a deed of manu-mission and release from service, with a glowing letter of character reference.
“Where is Susie?” Sarah asked, when she reached the end of the line, and looked around for one of her older housemaids. Susie was married to the wagon driver Sonnie, who was still a prisoner in the castle dungeons.
The other servants looked around with surprise. “Susie was here,” one answered. “I saw her at the end of the veranda.”
“She was probably overcome by the shock of hearing that we are leaving,” Yasmini suggested. “When she has recovered I’m sure she will come back to take her leave.”
There was so much still to be done that Sarah was forced to put Susie’s absence to the back of her mind. “I’m sure she would never let us go without a word,” she said, and hurried down to make sure that the cart carrying her special treasures was ready to leave for the beach.
By the time the wagons were ready to leave the homestead the moon had risen, and by its light Susie was hurrying along the road to the castle. She had her shawl over her head, the tail of it wrapped round the lower half of her face. Her face was wet with tears, and she muttered to herself as she ran: “They don’t think about me and Sonnie. No, they leave my husband in the hands of the Boers, to be beaten and killed. They leave me here with three little ones to starve while they sail away.” The twenty years of kindness she had received from Sarah Courtney were swept from her mind and she burst into sobs as she thought about the cruelty of her employer.
She quickened her pace. “Well, if they don’t care for me and Sonnie and the little ones, why should I care for them?” Her voice hardened with her resolve. “I will make a bargain with the Boers. If they let Sonnie go from the dungeon, I will tell them what Klebe and his wife are up to tonight.”
Susie did not waste time going to the castle to find Colonel Keyser. She went directly to the little cottage behind the Company gardens. The Hottentot community was close-knit and Shala, Colonel Keyser’s paramour, was the youngest daughter of Susie’s sister. Her liaison with the colonel gave Shala great prestige in the family.
Susie knocked on the shutters of the back room of the cottage. After some fumbling and grumbling in the darkened bedroom, lantern light flared behind the shutters and Shala’s voice demanded sleepily, “Who is it?”
“Shala, it’s me. Tannie Susie.”
Shala opened the shutters. She stood naked in the light of her own lantern, and her fat honey-coloured breasts joggled together as she leaned over the window-sill. “Auntie? How late is it? What do you want at this hour?”
“Is he here, child?” Susie’s question was redundant. Keyser’s snores rumbled from the darkened bedroom like distant thunder. “Wake him up.”
“He will beat me if I do,” Shala protested. “You also, he will thrash you.”
“I have important news for him,” Susie snapped. “He will reward us both when he hears it. Your uncle Sonnie’s life depends on it. Wake him at once.”
When the line of wagons set off from High Weald towards the seafront even those who were not sailing with the family walked alongside. When they reached the beach they helped load the cargo into the lighters that were already waiting at the edge of the surf. Before all the wagons had made their way down through the dunes both boats were fully loaded.
“In this surf we will risk a capsize if we burden them any more,” Tom decided. “Dorian and I will take this load out to the ships and secure the guards.” He turned to Sarah and Yasmini. “If they are not sufficiently lulled with Mansur’s brandy, there may be a rumpus on board. I don’t want you mixed up in that. You two must wait here and I will bring you out to the ships on the next trip.”
“The cart with our luggage has not arrived yet.” Sarah peered back worriedly into the darkness of the dunes.
“It will be here in short order,” Tom assured her. “Now, please wait here and do not take Yassie and go wandering off to heaven knows where.” He embraced her and whispered in her ear, “And I would be mightily obliged if you do as I ask just this once.”
“How can you think so poorly of your own wife?” she whispered back. “Off you go. When you return I shall be here, as good as gold.”
“And twice as beautiful,” he added.
The men scrambled aboard the lighters and seized the oars. The pull out to the ships was rough and wet, for the laden vessels were low in the water. The spray came over the bows, soaking them to the skin. When at last they rowed into the calmer water in the lee of the Gift of Allah there was no challenge from the ship. Tom swarmed up the rope-ladder with Dorian and Mansur not far behind him. They drew their blades, ready to meet an attack from the VOC troops, but instead they found Captain Batula waiting at the entry port.
“May the peace of God be upon you.” He greeted his ship’s owners with the deepest respect. Dorian embraced Batula warmly. They had ridden thousands of leagues together and sailed even further. They had fought side by side in the battles that had won a kingdom. They had shared bread and salt. Their friendship was a rock.
“Where are the guards, Batula?” Tom cut short their greetings.
“The forecastle,” Batula told him. “They are sodden with drink.”
Tom ran to the open companionway and jumped down. The cabin stank of brandy fumes and other less attractive odours. The VOC troopers and their corporal were lying comatose in puddles of their own vomit.
Tom sheathed his sword. “These gentlemen are quite happy for a while. Tie them up and let them enjoy their rest until we are ready to leave. Let’s get the gold chests and the rest of the cargo on board.”
Once the chests of gold coins were safely stowed in the main cabin, Tom left Dorian and Mansur to supervise the loading of the rest of the cargo. He took charge of the second lighter and they rowed across to the Maid of York. They found the VOC guards there in no better condition than their comrades on the Gift of Allah.
“Sunrise in eight hours, and we must be out of sight of land by then,” Tom told Kumrah, the Arab captain. “Get this cargo on board as soon as you like.” The crew flew at the task and as the last bale of goods came on board, Tom looked across at the other ship and saw that Dorian had sent a single lantern to the masthead of the Gift, the signal that the first lighter was unloaded and returning to the beach to pick up the women and the remaining cargo.
As soon as the bales were lashed down, Tom had his crew carry the VOC soldiers up from the forecastle and dump them, trussed like chickens, into the lighter lying alongside. By then some were regaining consciousness, but on account of their gags and bonds they were unable to express their indignation except by grunting and rolling their eyes.
They pushed off from the ship’s side and Tom took the tiller and steered back towards the shore following Dorian’s lighter. As they came on to the sand Tom saw Dorian’s boat was already on the beach, but nobody was at work loading it. Instead an agitated knot of servants and crew was gathered at the foot of the dunes. Tom jumped down into the shallow water and waded to the shore. He ran up the beach and saw Dorian arguing with the head driver.
“What has happened?” Then he saw that Sarah and Yasmini were missing. “Where are the women?” Tom called.
“This idiot has let them go back.” Dorian’s tone was edged with desperation.
“Go back?” Tom stopped dead and stared at him. “What do you mean, go back?”
“The cart with their luggage broke do
wn in the dunes. The axle snapped. Sarah and Yasmini have taken one of the empty wagons to fetch the load.”
“Those mad women!” Tom exploded, and then, with a great effort, brought his temper under control. “Very well, we must make the best of it. Mansur, take the prisoners up above the high-water mark. Do not untie them. Leave them there for Keyser to find in the morning. Then load these goods into the first lighter.” He pointed at the remaining boxes and crates piled on the beach. “Send them out to the ships with the crew from the Maid of York. Thank the good Lord we have the gold chests on board already.”
“What shall I do after that?” asked Mansur.
“You have charge here at the landing. Wait with the second boat. Be ready to load up and launch as soon as we return with the women.” Mansur ran to obey, and Tom turned back to Dorian. “Come, brother, you and I will go to fetch the sweet chickens that have flown the coop.”
They hurried to the horses. “Loosen your blade in its scabbard, and make sure both your pistols are charged, Dorry. I like this turn in the road not at all,” Tom muttered, as they mounted. He took his own advice, loosened the blue sword in its scabbard, drew the pistols from the holsters on the front of his saddle, checked them, then thrust them back again.
“Come!” he said, and the two galloped back along the sandy track. Tom was expecting at any moment to come across the stranded cart, but when they rode down out of the dunes and started up through the paddocks towards the homestead they had still not found it.
“If the cart did not get very far,” Dorian muttered, “you cannot place much blame on the driver. It collapsed under that great mountain of female baggage.”
“We should have packed it on the larger wagon.”
“The ladies would not have it so,” Dorian reminded him. “They did not want their treasures contaminated by sharing the ride with common goods.”
“I see no call for levity in this, brother. Time runs us short.” Tom looked up at the eastern sky, but there was no sign of the dawn.