by Wilbur Smith
“These will afford us much valuable evidence about my brother’s activities,” Dorian said, with grim satisfaction, “and of his dealings with Zayn al-Din and the East India Company.”
Then they went back on deck, and broke open the seals on the hatches of the main hold. They lifted off the covers and went down into it. They found it filled with great quantities of muskets, swords and lance heads, new and unused, still packed in the manufacturers’ grease. There was also powder and shot by the ton, twenty light field-artillery pieces, and much other military stores.
“Enough to start a war or a revolution,” Dorian remarked drily.
“Which is Uncle Guy’s purpose,” Mansur agreed.
Much of this had been damaged by seawater. It was a lengthy business to clear the hold of this cargo, but at last they were down to the deck timbers, and there was no trace of the gold Verity had promised them.
Mansur climbed out of the hot, fetid hold, and went to find her. She was in her cabin. He paused in the entrance. In this short time she had restored the shambles of her cabin to a remarkable state of order and cleanliness. She sat at the mahogany desk under the skylight. She was no longer clad like an orphan in his oversized cast-off clothing. Instead she was wearing a fresh blue organza dress with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and trimmed with fine lace. Around her throat was a lustrous string of pearls. She was reading a book in a jewelled, engraved silver cover, and making notes in another with a plain vellum cover. Mansur saw that the pages were closely written with her small, elegant script. She looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “Ah, Your Highness, do I have your attention for the moment? I am greatly honoured.”
Despite his disappointment in finding the hold bare, Mansur gaped at her in admiration. “There is not a shadow of doubt in my mind that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon,” he said, with awe in his tone. In this setting she seemed to him a perfect jewel.
“While you, sir, are rather sweaty and grubby.” She laughed at him. “But I am sure that is not what you came to hear.”
“There isn’t a single coin down there,” he said lamely.
“Have you taken the trouble to look beneath the floorboards, or should that be the deck? I am a little at sea with these nautical terms, if you will forgive the play on words.”
“I love you more each hour, my clever darling,” he cried, and ran back to the hold, shouting for the carpenters to come to him.
Verity waited until the banging and hammering in the hold ceased abruptly and she heard the squeal of timbers being prised loose. Then she laid aside the Ramayana and went up on deck. She strolled across to the open hatch. She was just in time to watch the first chest being brought reverentially out of its snug hiding-place beneath the deck. It was so weighty that it took the combined strength of Mansur and five hefty seamen to lift it. As one of the carpenters unscrewed the lid, seawater poured out through the joints, for the chest had been submerged since the ship had run on to the horns of the Deceiver.
There were exclamations of astonishment and wonder as Mansur lifted off the lid. From directly above, Verity caught the wanton shine of pure gold before the men crowded forward and cut off her view. She gazed instead at Mansur’s bare back. His muscles were oiled with sweat, and when he reached down to pick out one of the bright yellow bars, she glimpsed the tuft of coppery hair in his armpit.
The sight of the gold had not moved her in the least, but his body did. She felt that strange but particular feeling melting her loins, and had to go back to her book in an attempt to alleviate it. This helped not at all. The warm and pleasant sensation grew stronger.
“You have become a shameless and lascivious woman, Verity Courtney,” she whispered primly, but her smug little smile gave the lie to her self-deprecatory tone.
Mansur and Dorian removed fifteen chests of gold from the bilges of the Arcturus. When they weighed them they found that, as Verity had said, each one contained a lakh of the precious metal.
“My father is a neat, fastidious man,” Verity explained. “Originally the gold was delivered to him from the treasuries of Oman and Constantinople in a profusion of coins of various dates and empires and denominations, in bars, beads and coils of wire. My father had it melted down and recast into standard bars of ten pounds weight, with his crest and the assayed purity stamped into each.”
“This is a vast fortune,” Dorian murmured, as the fifteen chests were lowered into the hold of the Revenge, where they would be under his direct charge. “My brother was a rich man.”
“Do not feel sorry on his behalf,” Verity said. “He is a rich man still. This is but a small part of his wealth. There is much more than this in the strongroom of the consulate in Bombay. It is zealously guarded by my brother, Christopher, who sets greater store by it even than my father does.”
“You have my word on it, Verity, that what we do not use in the struggle to free Muscat from Zayn’s baleful thrall will be returned to the treasury in Muscat whence most of it was stolen. It will be used for the benefit of my people.”
“I trust your word on that, Uncle, but the truth is that I am sickened by it, for I have been party to its acquisition by a man who prizes it above humanity.”
Once the gold was out of her they could warp the Arcturus on to the beach and careen her. Then the work went swiftly, for they had gathered much experience from the repairs they had carried out on the Revenge. This time they were also able to call upon the expertise of Captain Cornish. He cherished his ship like a beautiful mistress, and his advice and assistance were given unstintingly. Dorian came more and more to rely on him, although by rights he was an enemy prisoner-of-war.
In his own bluff, bucolic manner Ruby Cornish was Verity’s ardent admirer. He sought the first opportunity to be alone with her. This was while she was sitting on the black sands of the beach, sketching the scene as the workmen swarmed over the careened hull of the Arcturus. The patterns of lines and ropes stretched over the graceful hull reminded her of a spider’s web, and the contrast of clean white planed timbers against the jagged black rock intrigued her.
“May I take a few minutes of your time, Mistress Courtney?” Cornish stood before her and doffed his hat, holding it across his chest. Verity looked up from her easel and smiled as she laid aside her pencils.
“Captain Cornish! What a pleasant surprise. I thought you had quite forgotten me.”
Cornish turned an impossible shade of scarlet. “I have come to beg a favour of you.”
“You have only to ask, Captain, and I will do my best on your behalf.”
“Mistress, at the moment I am without employment, as my ship has been seized by Caliph al-Salil, who, I understand, is an Englishman and related to you.”
“It is all very confusing, I agree, but, yes, al-Salil is my uncle.”
“He has expressed the intention of sending me back to Bombay or to Muscat. I have lost your father’s ship, which was in my charge,” Cornish went on doggedly, “and, begging your pardon, your father is not a man who forgives readily. He will hold me directly responsible.”
“Yes, I rather suspect he may do so.”
“I would not like to explain the loss of the ship to him.”
“That might indeed be prejudicial to your continued good health.”
“Mistress Verity, you have known me since you were a young girl. Could you find it in your conscience to recommend me to your uncle, the Caliph, for continued employment as the captain of the Arcturus? I think you know that in the circumstances I will be loyal to my new employer. In addition, it would give me the greatest pleasure to think that our long acquaintance will not end here.”
They had, indeed, known each other for several years. Cornish was a fine seaman, and a loyal servant. She also had a special affection for him, in that he had on many occasions proved himself her staunch but discreet ally. Whenever possible he had shielded her from her father’s perverted malice.
“I shall see what can be done, Captain Cornish.”
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“You are very kind,” he muttered gruffly, clapped his hat back on his head and saluted her. Then he stamped away through the loose black sand.
Dorian did not have to ponder long on the request. As soon as the Arcturus was refitted and floated off the beach, Cornish resumed command of her. Only ten of his seamen refused to come with him. When the little flotilla sailed from Sawda island, it headed south-west to pick up the warm, benign waters of the Mozambique current which, with the monsoon winds, bore them rapidly southwards along the Fever Coast.
Some weeks later, they hailed a large trading dhow on an easterly heading. When Dorian exchanged news with him, her captain explained that he was on a trading expedition to the distant ports of Cathay. He was delighted to add the ten reluctant seamen from the Arcturus to his own crew. Dorian was content with the knowledge that it might take years for their report to filter back to Muscat, or to the English consulate in Bombay.
Then they set all sail that the monsoon winds would allow, and went on southwards, through the channel between the long island of Madagascar and the African mainland. Slowly the wild, unexplored coastline unfolded on their right hand, until at last they raised the high whale-backed bluff that guarded Nativity Bay, and sailed in through the narrow entrance.
It was the middle of the day, but there was no evidence of human presence at the fort: no smoke from chimneys, no washing flapping on the lines, no children playing on the beach. Dorian was concerned for the welfare of his family. It was almost three years since they had sailed away and much might have happened in that time. There were many enemies, and in their absence the fort might have been overwhelmed by man, famine or pestilence. Dorian fired a gun as they glided in towards the beach, and was relieved to see the sudden stir of activity around the fort. A row of heads popped up along the parapet, the gates were flung open and a motley crowd of servants and children ran out. Dorian lifted his telescope and trained it on the gates. His heart leaped with joy as he saw the big, bear-like figure of his brother Tom striding through, and heading down the path towards the beach, waving his hat over his head. He had not reached the edge of the water before Sarah followed him, running out of the gates. When she caught up with him, she linked her arm through his. Her happy cries of welcome carried across the water to the ships as they anchored.
“You were right again,” Verity told Mansur. “If that is my aunt Sarah, I already like her passing fair.”
“Can we trust this man?” Zayn al-Din asked, in his high, feminine voice.
“Your Majesty, he is one of my best captains. I vouch for him with my own life,” Muri Kadem ibn Abubaker replied. Zayn had bestowed upon him the title of Muri, High Admiral, after the capture of Muscat.
“You might have to do just that.” Zayn stroked his beard as he studied the man they were discussing. He was prostrated before the throne, his forehead pressed to the stone floor. Zayn made a gesture with his bony forefinger.
Kadem translated it at once. “Lift your head. Let the Caliph see your face,” he told his captain, and the man sat back on his heels. However, his eyes were downcast for he dared not look directly into the eyes of Zayn al-Din.
Zayn studied his face carefully. The man was young enough still to have the vigour and dash of a warrior, but old enough to have tempered it with experience and judgement. “What is your name?”
“I am Laleh, Your Majesty.”
“Very well, Laleh,” Zayn nodded, “let us hear your report.”
“Speak,” Kadem ordered.
“Majesty, on the orders of Muri Kadem, six months ago I sailed south along the Africa mainland, until I reached the bay known by the Portuguese as the Nativity. I had been sent by the Muri to ascertain if, as our spies had told us, this was indeed the hiding place of al-Salil, the traitor and enemy of the Caliph and the people of Oman. At all times I was at great pains to make certain that my dhow should not be seen from the shore. During the day I cruised well below the horizon. Only after nightfall did I approach the entrance to the bay. If it so please Your Majesty.” Laleh prostrated himself again, his forehead pressed to the stone floor.
The men seated on cushions facing the throne were all listening intently. Sir Guy Courtney sat closest to the Caliph. Despite the loss of his ship, and the huge fortune in gold it contained, his power and influence were undiminished. He remained the chosen emissary of both the English East India Company and King George of England.
Sir Guy had found a new interpreter to replace Verity, a writer of long employment in the Bombay headquarters of the Company. He was a lanky, balding fellow, his skin pitted with smallpox scars, and his name was Peter Peters. Although his grasp of half a dozen languages was excellent, Sir Guy could not trust him as he had his daughter.
Below Sir Guy sat Pasha Herminius Koots. He also had been promoted after the capture of the city from al-Salil. Koots had accepted Islam, for he knew full well that without Allah and His Prophet he could never be fully inducted into the Caliph’s favour. He was now the supreme commander of the Caliph’s army. All three men, Kadem, Koots and Sir Guy, had pressing political and personal reasons to be present at this war council.
Zayn al-Din made an impatient gesture, and Muri Kadem stirred Captain Laleh with his toe. “Continue, in the name of the Caliph.”
“May Allah always smile upon him, and shower him with good fortune,” Laleh intoned, and sat up again. “During the night I went ashore and hid myself in a secret place on the bluff above the bay. I sent my ship away so that it should not be seen by the followers of al-Salil. From this place I watched over the stronghold of the enemy, if it so please you, Your Majesty.”
“Continue!” This time Kadem did not wait for the Caliph to give the word, and kicked Laleh in the ribs.
He gasped, and went on hurriedly, “I beheld three ships at anchor in the bay. One of these was the tall ship that was captured from the English effendi.” Laleh turned his head to indicate the consul, and Sir Guy frowned darkly to be reminded of his loss. “The other vessels were those in which al-Salil fled after his defeat by the illustrious Caliph Zayn al-Din, beloved of the Prophet.” Laleh prostrated himself again, and this time Kadem caught him a full swing of his nailed sandals.
Laleh bounced upright and his voice was wheezy with the pain of his bruised ribcage. “Towards evening I saw a small fishing-boat leave the bay and anchor on the reef outside the mouth. When darkness fell the three men of the boat-crew began fishing by lantern-light. When I went back on board my dhow I sent my men to capture them. They killed one man when he fought against capture, but they took the two others prisoner. I towed the fishing-boat many leagues offshore before filling it with ballast stones and scuttling it. I did this so that al-Salil would believe it had been overwhelmed by the sea during the night and the men drowned.”
“Where are these prisoners?” Zayn demanded. “Bring them before me.”
Muri Kadem clapped his hands and the two men were led in by the guards. They were dressed only in filthy loincloths and their emaciated bodies bore the marks of heavy beatings. One had lost an eye. The raw, black-scabbed pit was uncovered, except for the metallic blue flies that swarmed into it. Both shuffled along under the weight of the leg irons that were riveted to their ankles.
The guards threw them full length on the flags at the foot of the throne. “Abase yourselves before the favourite of the Prophet, the ruler of Oman and all the islands of the Ocean of the Indies, Caliph Zayn al-Din.” The prisoners writhed before him and whined their protestations of fealty and duty.
“Majesty, these are the men I captured,” Laleh said. “Unfortunately the one-eyed rogue lost his wits but the other, who is named Omar, is made of stouter stuff and he will be able to answer any questions you may deign to ask him.” Laleh unhooked from his belt a long hippopotamus-hide whip and uncoiled it. As soon as he shook out the lash, the idiot prisoner began gibbering and drooling with terror.
“I have learned that both these men were sailors aboard the ship commanded by al-Salil.
They have been in his service for many years and know much of that traitor’s affairs.”
“Where is al-Salil?” Zayn al-Din demanded. Laleh cracked the whiplash, and the one-eyed idiot defecated down his own legs with terror. Zayn turned away his face with disgust and ordered the guards, “Take him out and kill him.” They dragged him, shrieking, from the throne room and Zayn turned all his attention on Omar, and repeated the question: “Where is al-Salil?”
“Majesty, when last I saw him, al-Salil was at Nativity Bay, in the fort that they call Auspice. He had with him his son, his elder brother and their women.”
“What are his intentions? How long will he remain in this place?”
“Majesty, I am a humble seaman. Al-Salil did not discuss these matters with me.”
“Were you with al-Salil when the ship called Arcturus was captured? Did you see the gold chests that were part of her cargo?”
“Majesty, I was with al-Salil when he lured the Arcturus on to the rocks called the Deceiver. I was one of those who lifted the gold chests out of the hold and carried them on board the Revenge.”
“The Revenge?” Zayn demanded.
Omar explained hurriedly, “That is the name of the flagship of al-Salil.”
“Where are those gold chests now?”
“Majesty, they were taken ashore as soon as the ships anchored in Nativity Bay. Once again I helped to carry them. We placed them in a strongroom under the foundations of the fort.”
“How many men are with al-Salil? How many of these are fighting men who are trained in the use of the sword and musket? How many cannon does al-Salil have? Are there only the three ships you have spoken of or does the traitor have others?” In his squeaky little voice, Zayn questioned Omar patiently, often repeating his questions. Whenever Omar faltered or hesitated Laleh sent the lash curling and snapping across his ribs. By the time Zayn sat back and nodded with satisfaction, blood was dripping from the freshly opened wounds that criss-crossed the seaman’s back.