by Wilbur Smith
When at last she had burnt out his emotions with her words, he blew out the lamp and went dazed with emotional exhaustion to her bunk. The rich fragrance of her hair still lingered on her pillow and the sheets were perfumed by her skin. In the night he woke and reached for her, and when he realized that she was not there the agony made him groan. Then he hated his own father for not allowing her to stay with him, and sending her away in the wagons with Sarah, Louisa and little George into the wild hills of the hinterland.
No matter how little he had slept he was always on Arcturus’s deck when eight bells sounded in the middle watch, and before the first blush of dawn he was at the masthead, watching and waiting.
As the most powerful but slowest ship in the squadron, the Arcturus kept the windward station, and Mansur had the sharpest pair of eyes on board. It was he who spotted the tiny fleck of the felucca’s sail as she came up over the horizon. The moment that they were certain of her identity Ruby Cornish brought the Arcturus about and they ran down to intercept her.
Tasuz answered his hail: “Zayn al-Din is here, with twenty-five great dhows.” Then he turned and led the squadron back towards the African mainland, which now lay low on the horizon, dark blue and as menacing as some monster of the deep. Again it was Mansur who first picked out the shapes of the enemy flotilla anchored off the mouth of the Umgeni river. Their sails were furled and their dark hulls blended with the background of hills and forest.
“They are lying exactly where your father expected them.” Cornish studied them carefully as they raced down upon them. “They are already sending their boats in to the beach. The attack has begun.”
Swiftly they closed the gap, and it seemed that the enemy were so intent on their landing that they were neglecting the watch they should have kept on the open sea behind them.
“Those are the five war-dhows of the escort.” Mansur pointed them out. “The others are transports.”
“We have the weather gauge.” Cornish smiled comfortably and his face glowed with satisfaction. “The same wind that blows to our advantage has them pinned against the lee shore. If they hoist their anchors they will go aground almost immediately. We have Kadem ibn Abubaker at our mercy. How should we proceed, Your Highness?” Cornish looked at Mansur. Dorian had given his son the overall command of the squadron: Mansur’s royal rank dictated that. The Arab captains would not have understood or accepted any other in place of him.
“My instinct is to go straight at the war-dhows while we have them at our mercy. If we can destroy them, the transports will fall into our laps like overripe fruit. Would you agree, Captain Cornish?”
“With all my heart, Your Highness.” Cornish showed his appreciation of Mansur’s tact by touching the brim of his hat.
“Then, if you please, let us close with the other ships so that I may pass the order to them. I shall allot an enemy ship to each. We in the Arcturus will engage the largest of them,” Mansur pointed to the dhow in the centre of the line of anchored ships, “for that is almost certainly commanded by Kadem ibn Abubaker. I shall board immediately and capture it, while you sail on and do the same to the next in line.”
The Sprite and the Revenge were sailing a little ahead, backing their sails slightly so as not to head-reach too far on the Arcturus. Mansur hailed them, and pointed out which of the dhows were their separate targets. As soon as they understood what he wanted of them they barged ahead, charging at the line of anchored ships.
At last the enemy saw them coming, and confusion spread swiftly through their fleet. Three of the transports were occupied with landing the horses they were carrying. They were winching them out of the holds with slings passed under their bellies, then lowering them over the side into the water. When they reached it, they turned them loose to swim unaided. The sailors waiting for them in the small boats drove them into the breaking surf to fight their way to the beach as best they were able. Already more than a hundred of the sick, exhausted animals were in the water, struggling to keep afloat.
When they saw the tall ships bearing down on them with all their guns run out, the captains of the horse transports panicked. With a few axe strokes they severed their anchor cables, and tried to bear away. Two collided, and in the confusion they drifted into the line of heaving white surf. Still locked together, the waves broke over their decks. One capsized and took the other with it. The surface of the water was covered with wreckage, struggling men and horses. One or two of the other troop ships managed to cut their cables and hoist their sails. It was close work but they cleared the lee shore and made good their offing.
“They are unarmed and no danger to us,” Mansur told Cornish. “Let them go. We can run them down later. First we must deal with the war-dhows.” He left Cornish, and went forward to take command of the boarding party. The five war-dhows had kept their positions at anchor. They were too large and ungainly to risk the dangerous manoeuvre of trying to clear the lee shore in the face of such a powerful enemy. They had no option but to stay and fight.
The Arcturus ran straight at the largest. Mansur stood in the bows and surveyed the deck of the other ship as the gap between them closed. “There he is!” he shouted suddenly, and pointed with his sword. “I knew he must be here!”
The ships were so close that Kadem heard his voice and glared back at him. The shaft of pure hatred that passed between them was almost tangible.
“One broadside, Captain Cornish,” Mansur looked back at the quarter-deck, “and we will board her over her bows through the smoke.” Cornish waved acknowledgement and steered his ship in.
The direction of the wind held Kadem’s dhow with her bows pointing out to sea, her stern towards the beach. Although the Omani crew ran out their guns defiantly, they could not bring them to bear. Cornish crossed the bows of Kadem’s dhow to rake her at point-blank range. The Arcturus stood higher out of the water than the dhow, and her guns were able to fire down on her. Cornish had loaded with grape-shot, and the broadside crashed out. A thick bank of grey gunsmoke shot through with lumps of burning wadding billowed out and obscured her open deck. The wind blew it aside and revealed a scene of utter devastation. The timbers of the dhow’s deck had been ripped as though by the claws of a monstrous cat. The gunners were piled in bloody heaps upon their unfired weapons. The splintered scuppers ran crimson with their blood.
Mansur looked for Kadem in the carnage. With a small jolt of disbelief he saw that he was unharmed and still on his feet, trying to muster the stunned survivors of that terrible blast of iron balls. Skilfully Cornish let the hulls of the two ships kiss, then held them together with a delicate play on the helm. Mansur led his boarders across in a rush, and Cornish toyed with the wheel and disengaged. Leaving Mansur and his men to seize the dhow, he sailed on down the line of anchored ships to attack the next war-dhow before it could escape out to sea. He had a respite of a few minutes to look round and see how the other two ships were faring.
After battering them with unrelenting broadsides at close range, the crews of the Revenge and the Sprite had boarded their chosen adversaries. Three more of the troop transports had drifted into the surf and capsized; some of the others were still at anchor. Cornish counted six more who had avoided the attackers and were clawing desperately out to sea. Then he looked back over his stern and saw the bitter fighting that surged over the deck of Kadem’s anchored dhow. He thought he saw Mansur in the front of the battle, but it was so fluid and confused that he could not be sure. The prince might have done better to let me give them a few more doses of grape, before he boarded, he thought, and then with admiration, but he is a hotblood. Kadem ibn Abubaker murdered his mother. Honour allows him no other course than to go after him, man to man.
The Arcturus was coming down fast on the next war-dhow in the line, and Cornish gave her all his attention. “The same medicine, lads,” he called to his gunners. “A goodly draught of the grape, and then we will board her.”
Although the grape-shot had killed or wounded half of the men on t
he deck of Kadem ibn Abubaker’s ship, the moment Mansur’s boarding party swung across from the Arcturus, Kadem shouted the order and the rest of his crew came pouring out of the hatchways from the lower decks and launched themselves into the fight.
In numbers boarders and defenders were almost evenly matched. They were so closely packed that there was scarce enough space in which to swing the sword or thrust with the pike. They surged back and forth, slipping on the bloody decks, shouting and hacking at each other.
Mansur looked for Kadem in the ruck, but almost immediately he was confronted by three men. They came at him in a rush. Mansur hit one low in the chest, driving his point up under the ribs. He heard the air hiss from the man’s punctured lungs before he toppled to the deck. Mansur only just had time to recover his blood-smeared blade and come back on guard before the other two were upon him.
One of these was a wiry fellow whose long arms were roped with stringy muscle. His naked chest was tattooed with a sura from the Qur’an. Mansur recognized him: he had fought beside him on the ramparts of Muscat. He feinted, then cut overhand at Mansur’s head. Mansur blocked him and locked his blade. He swung him round like a shield to hold off his comrade, who was trying to intervene.
“So, Zaufar! You could not wait for the return of al-Salil, your true caliph,” Mansur snarled into his face. “Last time we met I saved your life. This time I shall take it from you.”
Zaufar leaped back in consternation. “Prince Mansur, is it you?” In reply Mansur pulled off his turban and shook out his copper golden hair.
“It is the prince,” Zaufar screamed. His comrades paused and drew back. They stared at Mansur.
“It is the son of al-Salil,” one cried. “Yield to him!”
“He is the spawn of the traitor! Kill him!” a pot-bellied rogue bellowed, and forced his way through their ranks. Zaufar turned and sent a thrust deeply into his bulging gut. In a moment the enemy was divided against each other. Mansur’s men rushed forward to take advantage of the confusion.
“Al-Salil!” they shouted, and some of the dhow’s crew took up the cry, while the others yelled back defiantly, “Zayn al-Din!”
With so many of Kadem’s men changing sides, those still loyal to him were outnumbered and they were swept back down the deck. Mansur led the charge, his face and robe splattered by the blood of his victims, his eyes ferocious. He searched for Kadem in the rabble. As he fought his way forward more of the enemy recognized him. They threw down their weapons and grovelled on the deck.
“Mercy in the name of al-Salil!” they screamed.
At last Kadem ibn Abubaker stood alone at the stern rail of the dhow. He stared across at Mansur.
“I have come for retribution,” Mansur called to him. “I have come to purge your evil soul with steel.” He started forward again and the men between them shrank out of his way. “Come, Kadem ibn Abubaker, meet me now.”
Kadem reared back, then swung forward and hurled his scimitar at Mansur’s head. The curved blade, clotted with the blood of his victims, cartwheeled through the air with a vicious whirring sound. Mansur ducked under it and it went on to thud into the base of the mast.
“Not now, puppy. First I will kill your dog-sire, then only will I have time to deal with you.”
Before Mansur realized what he was about, Kadem pulled his robe over his head and threw it to the deck. He wore only a loincloth round his waist. His torso was lean and hard. Under his arm was the raised purple scar of the sword-thrust that Mansur had inflicted on him on the quay at Muscat harbour. Kadem turned to the rail and leaped far out. He hit the water, went under, then surfaced and struck out strongly for the beach.
Mansur ran down the deck to the stern, stripping off his own clothing as he went. He dropped his sword, but thrust the curved dagger still in its gold and silver sheath into the back of his loincloth where it would not hamper his swimming stroke. He knotted it there securely. Then, with hardly a check, he dived head first over the rail. Both Mansur and Jim had learned to swim in the turbulent waters of the Benguela current that sweep the shores of Good Hope. As mere lads the two had kept the household of High Weald supplied with abalone and giant crayfish. They took these not by pot or net, but dived for them in the deep waters of the reef. At the end of many hours spent in the icy waters they would race each other back to the shore dragging the bulging sacks of their catch through the water with them.
Mansur came to the surface and, with a shake of his head, flicked his sodden mane out of his eyes. He saw Kadem fifty yards ahead of him. From experience, he knew that, even though they were accomplished seamen, few Arabs learned to swim, so he was surprised by how strongly Kadem forged through the water. Mansur struck out after him, swinging into a powerful overhead rhythm.
He heard the cries of encouragement from his men on the dhow, but he ignored them and put all his heart, sinew and muscle into the effort. Every dozen strokes he snatched a glance ahead and saw that he was slowly closing in on Kadem.
As they drew nearer to the beach the swells started to hump under them. Kadem reached the break-line first. The tumbling white surf caught and smothered him, then threw him up again, coughing and disoriented. Now, instead of going with the current, he fought against it.
Mansur looked behind him, and saw the next set of waves rearing their backs against the blue of the sky. He stopped swimming and hung in the water, treading gently and paddling with his hands. He watched the first wave come down to him, then let it pass under him. It lifted him so that he had a clear view of Kadem only thirty yards ahead. The wave went on and dropped Mansur into its trough. The next wave came at him, taller and more powerful.
“The first a piddle, the second a fountain, the third will wash you up the mountain.” He almost heard Jim call the doggerel to him as he had so often before while they played together in the surf. “Wait for the third wave!”
Mansur let the second lift him even higher than the first. From the top he saw Kadem tumble end over end in the boil of the leading wave, his legs and then his flailing arms flashing out of the creaming surf. The wave sped on and left him struggling in its wake. Mansur looked back and saw the third wave bearing down on him. It arched up like the portals of the sky, its crest trembled, translucent green.
He turned with it and began to swim again, kicking hard and tearing at the water with both hands, building up his momentum. The wave picked him up and he found himself caught in its high frontal wall, racing onwards with his head and the top half of his body free.
Kadem was still floundering in the break and Mansur steered towards him with arms and legs, cutting across the face of the wave. At the last moment Kadem saw him and his eyes flew wide with astonishment. Mansur filled his own lungs with air and crashed into him. He locked his arms and legs around Kadem’s body, as both of them were swallowed by the wave and carried deep beneath the surface.
Mansur felt his eardrums creak with the pressure and the pain was like a skewer being driven through his skull. He did not release his grip on Kadem, but he swallowed extravagantly and his eardrums made a popping sound as the pressure released. They were driven still deeper and he touched the bottom with one foot. All the time he was tightening his grip around Kadem’s chest like the coils of a python.
They sank to the bottom and rolled together along the sandy floor. Mansur opened his eyes and looked upwards. His vision was blurred, and the surface seemed as remote as the stars. He gathered all his strength and squeezed again. He felt Kadem’s ribs creaking and bending in the circle of his arms. Then suddenly Kadem opened his mouth wide with the agony of it, and there was an explosive rush of air out of his throat.
Drown, you swine! Mansur thought, as he watched the silver bubbles of expelled wind racing up towards the surface. But he should have been ready for the last extremes of a dying animal. Somehow Kadem planted both feet on the sandy bottom, and thrust with all the strength of his legs. Still locked together they shot upwards, and the speed of their ascent increased as they approached
the surface.
They broke out, and Kadem sucked in air. It gave him new strength, and he twisted in Mansur’s arms and reached for his face with hooked fingers. His nails were sharp as augers and they raked Mansur’s forehead and cheeks, groping for his eyes.
Mansur felt one hard fingertip force aside his tightly closed eyelid, and slip deeply into the socket. The pain was beyond belief as the nail scored his eyeball and Kadem began to prise it out of Mansur’s skull. Mansur released his grip and jerked his head away just before the eyeball popped clean out. He was half blinded by the blood that welled up out of the wound. He emptied his lungs in a scream of agony. With renewed strength Kadem heaved himself on top of Mansur. He locked one arm around his throat in a strangler’s grip and forced him under. He was kicking and driving his knees into Mansur’s lower body, smothering him with blows and holding his head below the surface. Mansur’s lungs were empty, and the urge to breathe was as powerful as the will for life. Kadem’s arm was an iron band around his neck. He knew that he would waste the last of his strength if he continued to grapple with him.
He reached behind his back with one hand and drew his dagger from its scabbard. With his left hand he groped under the edge of Kadem’s ribcage seeking the lethal point. With all his remaining strength he drove the dagger into the indentation below the sternum. The knife-maker had curved the steel to facilitate just this kind of disembowelling stroke, and the edge was so sharp that Kadem’s tensed stomach muscles could offer little resistance to it. The steel ran into its full length, until Mansur felt the hilt strike against Kadem’s lowest rib. Then he drew the razor edge down and like a purse opened Kadem’s belly from his ribs to his pelvic bone.
With a massive convulsion of his whole body Kadem released his strangling grip, and broke away, rolling on to his back. He floundered on the surface and with both hands tried to stuff his bulging entrails back into the gaping wound. In blue and slippery ropes they kept pouring out and unwinding, until they tangled in his legs as he kicked to stay afloat. His face pointed to the sky and his mouth gaped in a silent cry of anger and despair.