by Wilbur Smith
The steps were greasy with green algae and Kadem, seeing Dorian about to escape his vengeance a second time, leaped in furiously. Dorian was driven back another pace on to the top step, and his right foot slipped on the greasy surface. He went down on one knee and was forced to save his balance by dropping his point for an instant. Kadem saw his chance. He launched himself, all his weight on his right foot, lunging for Dorian’s heart.
The moment his father had gone down, Mansur anticipated Kadem’s response. He turned, poised and ready. Kadem swung his body forward and for an instant his left flank was open as he launched himself into the attack. Mansur hit him, going in under his raised arm. He put all his anger, hatred and grief for his mother behind the thrust. He expected to feel his point slide in deeply, that clinging reluctance of living flesh opening to the steel. Instead his sword arm jarred to the strike of steel on the bone of Kadem’s ribs, and his wrist twisted slightly as the point was deflected. Nevertheless, the thrust ran along the outside of Kadem’s ribcage, and up under his scapula. It touched no vital organ but the force of it spun Kadem sideways, throwing off-line the thrust he aimed at Dorian. Kadem reeled away, and Mansur pulled his blade free and struck again. But with a violent effort Kadem blocked the second blow, and Dorian leaped back to his feet.
Father and son went at Kadem together, eager for the kill. Blood was pouring from the wound under Kadem’s arm and cascading down his flank. The shock of the blow and the realization that he was in mortal danger from two skilled swordsmen blanched his face a dirty treacle colour.
“Effendi!” Kumrah shouted, from the longboat. “Come! We will be trapped. There are more Turks coming.” The enemy was thronging out of the mouth of the alleyway, and rushing towards them.
Realizing their predicament, Dorian hesitated and that was all Kadem needed to break off and leap out of play. Instantly two swarthy, armoured Turks jumped forward in his place and rushed at Dorian. When he struck at them his blade skidded off their chain-mail.
“Enough!” Dorian grunted. “Get back to the boat!” Mansur feinted at the bearded face of one of the Turks, and when he ducked back Mansur stepped across to cover his father.
“Run!” he snapped, and Dorian bounded down the steps. Istaph and the others were already on board, and Mansur was left alone at the head of the landing. A line of pikes and scimitars pressed him back. He had a glimpse of Kadem ibn Abubaker glaring at him from the back row of the attackers; the wound had not dimmed his hatred.
“Kill him!” he screamed. “Let not the pig-swine escape.”
“Mansur!” He heard his father call from the bows of the longboat. Yet he knew that if he tried to run down the steps one of the pike men would send a thrust into his exposed back. He turned and jumped, launching himself out over the stone edge of the wharf. He dropped ten feet and landed feet first on one of the thwarts. The heavy planking cracked under his weight, and he toppled forward. The longboat rocked violently and Mansur almost went over the side, but Dorian grabbed and steadied him.
The oarsmen heaved together and the longboat shot away. Dorian looked back over the stern just as Kadem staggered to the edge of the wharf. He had dropped his sword and was clutching the wound under his arm. The blood flowed through his fingers. “You shall not escape my vengeance!” he shrieked after them. “You have my father’s blood on your hands and your conscience. I have sworn your death in the sight of Allah. I will follow you to the gates of hell.”
“He does not understand the true meaning of hatred,” Dorian whispered. “One day I hope to teach it to him.”
“I share your oath,” said Mansur, “but now we have to get our ships out of the bay and into the open sea, with Zayn’s entire fleet to oppose us.”
Dorian shook himself, throwing off the debilitating throes of grief and hatred. He turned to look at the mouth of the bay. Four of the big war-dhows were anchored in sight, and two more under sail.
“No sighting of the Arcturus?” he asked Mansur.
“Not these past three days,” Mansur replied, “but we can be sure she is not far off, lurking just below the horizon.”
Dorian went up on to the deck of the Revenge, then called down to Mansur in the longboat. “We must try at all times to keep one another in sight, but there is sure to be fighting. Should we become separated, you know the rendezvous.”
Mansur waved at him. “Sawda island, north tip. I will wait for you there.” He broke off at the sullen boom of a cannon, and looked back at the city walls above the harbour. Powder smoke bloomed on the parapet but was swiftly blown aside by the wind. Moments later a fountain of spray leaped from the surface of the sea close alongside the Sprite.
“The enemy have seized the batteries,” Dorian shouted. “We must get under way at once.”
Another cannon shot bellowed out before Mansur reached the Sprite. Although this ball fell well short, Mansur knew that the gunners would soon have the range.
“Pull!” he shouted to the rowers. “Pull or you will be forced to swim!”
The crew of the Sprite, urged on by the fall of shot around them, had the anchor cable singled up and the falls dangling overside from the davits, ready to retrieve the longboat. As Mansur bounded up on to the deck, he ordered the jib set to bring her round to face the entrance to the bay. As the Sprite turned on to the wind Kumrah broke out all sails to the royals.
The evening offshore wind had set in and was blowing steadily from the west. It was on their best point of sailing and they flew down towards the mouth of the bay. As they came up with the Revenge, she backed her mainsail to allow the Sprite to take the lead. The entrance was treacherous with hidden shoals, but Kumrah knew these waters better even than Batula in the Revenge. He would lead them out.
Mansur had not realized until then how swiftly the day had sped away. The sun was already low on the peaks of the mountains behind them, and the light was rich and golden. The batteries on the parapets of Muscat were still blazing away at them, and one lucky shot punched a neat hole in the mizzen topmast staysail, but they drew steadily out of range and could look ahead to the blockading ships across the entrance. Two of the war-dhows had hoisted their anchors, set their huge lateen sails and were moving out into the channel to meet them. Their passage through the water was sluggish compared to the two much smaller schooners, and they fell away noticeably even though they were not pointing high up into the stiff evening breeze. In contrast, the two schooners had set all sail and were tearing down the length of the bay.
Mansur looked along his deck and saw that his gunners were all at their action stations, although they had not yet run out the guns, which were loaded with round-shot. The slow-match was smouldering in the sand tubs and the men were laughing and talking excitedly. The days of gunnery practice and their successful attack on the Turkish infantry had imbued them with confidence. They were chafed by the inactivity of the last few weeks while they had been forced to lie at anchor, but now that Mansur and al-Salil were back in command of the flotilla they were eager for a fight.
Kumrah made a small adjustment to their course. Although Mansur trusted his judgement, he felt a twinge of unease. On this heading Kumrah would take them into the boiling white surf below the cliffs that guarded the entrance to the bay.
The nearest war-dhow altered her course towards them as soon as Kumrah’s turn became apparent. They began to converge swiftly. Mansur raised his glass and studied the dhow. It was crammed with men. They lined the windward rail and brandished their weapons. She had already run out her big guns.
“She is armed with short-barrelled Ostras,” Kumrah told Mansur.
“I do not know them.”
“That does not surprise me. They must be older than your grandfather.” Kumrah laughed. “And with a great deal less power.”
“Then it seems we are in greater danger of striking the reef than receiving a ball from those ancient weapons,” Mansur said pointedly. They were still charging straight in towards the cliffs.
“Highness
, you must have faith in Allah.”
“In Allah I have faith. I worry only about the captain of my ship.”
Kumrah smiled and held his course. The dhow fired her first ragged broadside from all fifteen of her starboard guns. The range was still too far by half. Mansur spotted the fall of only one shot, and that was short by half a musket. However, the faint cheering of the dhow’s crew carried to them faintly.
Still the huge dhow and the two small ships converged. Gradually as they bore down on the breaking white water the cheering from the dhow subsided and the pugnacious display with it.
“You have terrified the enemy, as you have me,” said Mansur. “Do you intend scuttling us on the reef, Kumrah?”
“I fished these waters as a boy, as did my father and his father before me,” Kumrah assured him. The reef was still dead ahead, and they were closing rapidly. The dhow fired another broadside, but it was clear that the gunners were distracted by the menace of the coral. Only a single large stone ball howled over the Sprite and severed a mizzen shroud. Quickly Kumrah sent two men to replace it.
Then, without reducing sail, Kumrah steered into a narrow channel in the reef that Mansur had not noticed. It was barely wide enough to accept the beam of the schooner. As they tore through, Mansur stared with dread fascination overside and saw huge mushroom heads of coral skimming by less than a fathom below the churning surface. Any one of them would have ripped the Sprite’s belly out of her.
This was too much for the nerves of the dhow captain. Mansur could see him in the stern of his ship, screaming and gesticulating wildly. His crew deserted their posts at the guns and scrambled to take in the billowing lateen sail and bring their ship on to the other tack. With the sail down they had to run the boom back to bring its butt round the mast, then home again on the port side. This was a laborious business and while they were about it the dhow wallowed helplessly.
“Stand by to go about!” Kumrah gave the order and his men ran to the stays. He was staring ahead, shading his eyes with one hand, judging his moment finely. “Up helm!” he called to his helmsman, who spun the wheel until the spokes blurred. The Sprite pirouetted and shot through the dogleg turn in the channel. They raced out of the far end into the deeper water, and the helpless dhow wallowed directly ahead of them with her sail in disarray and her guns unmanned.
“Run out the starboard guns!” Mansur gave the order, and the lids of the gunports crashed open. They crossed the dhow’s stern so closely that Mansur could have thrown his hat on to her deck.
“Fire as you bear!”
In quick succession the cannons roared out, and each ball smashed into the dhow’s stern. Mansur could see the timbers shatter and burst open in clouds of flying wood splinters. One of them as long as his arm pegged like an arrow into the mast beside his ear. At that range not a single shot missed the mark, and the iron balls raked through the dhow from stem to stern. There were screams of terror and agony from the crew as the Sprite sailed on past her into the open sea.
Following her closely through the channel in the coral, the Revenge bore down on the stricken vessel in her turn. As she passed she raked her again, and the dhow’s single mast toppled and fell overside.
Mansur looked ahead. The way was clear. Not one of the other dhows was in position to head them off. Kumrah’s seemingly suicidal manoeuvre had taken them by surprise. “Run in the guns!” he ordered. “Close the ports and secure the gun tackles.”
He looked back and saw the Revenge only half a cable’s length behind them. A long way back the dismasted dhow was drifting on to the reef, driven before the wind. She struck and heeled over violently. Through the glass Mansur saw her crew abandon her. They were leaping over the side, hitting the water with tiny white splashes, then striking out for the shore. Mansur wondered how many would survive the rip current at the foot of the cliffs, and the sharp fangs of the coral.
He backed his mainsail and let the Revenge come up alongside, close enough to enable his father to hail them through the speaking trumpet: “Tell Kumrah never to play that trick on us again! He took us through the gates of hell.”
Kumrah made a deep and penitent obeisance, but Dorian lowered the trumpet and saluted his cool head and nerves. Then he lifted the trumpet again. “It will be dark in an hour. I shall burn a single lantern in my stern port for you to keep your station on me. If we should become separated during the night, the rendezvous will be the same as always, Sawda island.”
The Revenge forged ahead and the Sprite fell in behind her. Weeks before Dorian had decided on their final destination. There was only one port in all the Ocean of the Indies open to them now. Zayn had all the Fever Coast and the harbours of Oman under his thrall. The Dutch had Ceylon and Batavia. The English East India Company controlled all the coast of India. Sir Guy would close that to them. There remained only the safe haven of Fort Auspice in Nativity Bay. There they would be able to gather their reserves and make plans for the future. He had marked the chart and given Mustapha Zindara and bin-Shibam the sailing directions for Fort Auspice: they would send a ship to find him there as soon as they had united the desert tribes and made all the preparations for his return. They would need gold rupees and strong allies. Dorian was as yet uncertain as to where he would find men and money, but there would be time to ponder this later.
He turned to his immediate concerns, and the course that he set now was east by south-east to clear the Gulf of Oman. Once they were into the open ocean they could steer directly for Madagascar and pick up the Mozambique current to carry them southwards. Mansur took up close station on the Revenge and they sailed on beneath a sunset of awe-inspiring grandeur. Mountainous anvil-headed thunderclouds marched along the darkling western horizon to the sound of distant thunder, and the sinking sun costumed them with suits of rosy gold and glittering cobalt blue.
Yet all this beauty could not lift from Mansur’s shoulder the sudden oppressive weight of the melancholia that bore down upon him. He was leaving the land and the people he had swiftly learned to love. The promise of a kingdom and of the Elephant Throne had been snatched from them. Yet all that was of little account when he thought of the woman he had lost before he had won her. He took from the inner pocket of his robe the letter he carried close to his heart, and read yet again her words: “Last night you asked me if I did not feel anything between you and me. I would not answer you then, but I answer you now. Yes, I do.”
It seemed to him that those were the most beautiful words ever written in the English language.
Darkness fell with the dramatic suddenness that is seen only in the tropics, and the stars showed through the gaps left in the high canopy of the stormclouds. Within a short time they were closed by the rolling thunderheads and the darkness was complete, except for the tiny firefly of light that was the lantern on the stern of the Revenge.
Mansur leaned on the compass pinnacle and let himself lapse into romantic fantasy, dreaming half the night away without seeking his bunk. Suddenly, he was roused by a stroke of forked lightning that flew from the cloud ceiling to the surface of the sea, and was followed immediately by a sky-shattering thunderclap. For an instant the Revenge appeared out of the darkness ahead, shimmering in vivid blue light, each detail of her rigging and sails stark and clear. Then the darkness fell over her again even more heavily than before.
Mansur jumped erect from his slouch over the binnacle and ran to the starboard rail. In that blinding lightning flash he thought he had seen something else. It had been an evanescent flash of reflected light, almost on the far horizon.
“Did you see it?” he shouted at Kumrah, who stood beside him at the rail.
“The Revenge?” Kumrah answered, from the darkness, and his tone was puzzled. “Yes, Highness. She is not more than a single cable’s length ahead. There—you can see the glimmer of her stern light still.”
“No, no!” Mansur cried. “Not on our bow. Abaft our beam. Something else.”
“Nay, master. I saw nothing.”
&
nbsp; Both men peered out into the night, and again the lightning cracked overhead like a gigantic whip, then thunder deafened them and seemed to shiver the surface of the dark sea with its monstrous discharge. In that fleeting moment of diamond-sharp clarity Mansur saw it again.
“There!” Mansur seized Kumrah’s shoulder and shook him violently. “There! Did you see it this time?”
“A ship! Another ship!” Kumrah cried. “I saw it clear.”
“How far off?”
“Two sea miles, no more than that. A tall ship. Square-rigged. That is no dhow.”
“’Tis the Arcturus! Lying here in ambuscade.” Desperately Mansur looked to his father’s ship, and saw that the tell-tale lantern still burned on her stern. “The Revenge has not seen the danger.”
“We must catch up with her and warn her,” Kumrah exclaimed.
“Even if we clap on all our canvas we will not overhaul the Revenge and be within hail of her in less than an hour. By then it may be too late.” Mansur hesitated a moment longer, then made his decision: “Beat to action quarters. Fire a gun to alert the Revenge. Then bring her on to the starboard tack and run in to intercept the enemy. Do not light the battle lanterns until I give the order. God grant we can take the enemy by surprise.”
The war drums boomed out into the dark, and as the crew scrambled to their stations a single peremptory gunshot thudded. As the Sprite came about, Mansur peered across at the other ship, waiting for her to extinguish her lantern or show some sign that she had taken heed of the warning, but at that instant the thunderclouds burst open and the rain teemed down. All was lost in the warm, smothering cascade of water. It seemed to fill the air they breathed, cutting out any faint glimmer of light and muting all sound other than the roar of the heavy drops on the canvas overhead and the deck timbers underfoot.
Mansur ran back to the binnacle and took a hasty bearing, but he knew that it was not accurate, and that the enemy ship might also have spotted them and changed her course and heading. His chances of coming upon her in this deluge were remote. They might pass each other by half a pistol shot without either being aware of the other’s presence.