Blue Horizon

by Wilbur Smith

  “He is going after the wagons and the gold.”

  “The women and little George! They are with the wagons. If Guy catches them—” Tom broke off. The thought was too painful to express. Then he went on bitterly, “I blame myself. I should have considered this possibility. Guy does not give up readily.”

  “The wagons have had a start of many days. They will be leagues away by now.”

  “Only twenty miles,” Tom said bitterly. “I told them to go as far as the river gorge, and make laager there.”

  “It’s my fault more than yours,” said Dorian. “The safety of the women should have been my first concern. What a fool I am.”

  “I must go after them.” Tom jumped to his feet. “I must stop them falling into Guy’s clutches.”

  “I will ride with you.” Dorian stood up beside him.

  “No, no!” Tom shoved him back. “The battle is in your hands. Without you all is lost. You cannot desert your command. That goes for Jim and Mansur too. They must not come rushing after me. I can take care of brother Guy without their help. You must keep the lads here with you until the job is done. Give me your word on it, Dorry.”

  “Very well. But you must take Smallboy and his musketeers with you. By the time you reach them, their job with the boom will be done.” He slapped Tom on the shoulder. “Ride for all you are worth, and God go with you every step of the way.” Tom sprang over the bank of the gun emplacement and ran to where the horses were tethered.

  As Tom galloped away down the track, two men came staggering from the furnace. They carried between them by its long handles the cradle on which lay the cannon-ball red as a ripe apple. Dorian could spare only one more quick glance after his elder brother, then hurried to supervise the gunners as they began the dangerous task of coaxing the ball into the muzzle of the gun. As it rolled down the smooth bore, two gunners rodded it up hard against the wet wadding and it sizzled and hissed. Clouds of steam poured out of the muzzle as they lowered the barrel.

  Dorian wound down the elevation screw himself, trusting no other with this precise adjustment. Two other men with crowbars levered the barrel, traversing it as Dorian called to them, “Left, and a hair more left!” Then, satisfied that the largest enemy dhow lay exactly in his sights, Dorian yelled, “Stand clear!” and seized the lanyard. The gun-crew responded to his command with alacrity. Dorian yanked the lanyard, and the huge gun leaped like a wild animal charging the bars of its cage.

  They could all follow the flight of the sparkling ball as it arced out across the waters of the bay, then fell towards the anchored dhow. A ragged cheer went up as they thought it must strike, then turned into a groan of disappointment as a tall white fountain jumped up close alongside the dhow’s hull.

  “Wet her down well!” Dorian had ordered. “You have seen what will happen if you do not.”

  He scrambled out of the emplacement and ran to the second gun. Already the next ball was being carried from the furnace and the crew was waiting for him. Before they could load and lay the gun, the five vessels had fled their moorings and were headed back across the bay towards the channel. Dorian peered over the sights. He had marked the angles of elevation in white paint on the gauge, and the men on the crow-bars nudged the long barrel round. He fired.

  This time there was a roar of triumph from every man on the hill as, even from this range, they saw the shower of bright sparks as the ball struck the hull of one of the dhows and the shot ripped through her timbers. Dorian ran to the third gun, leaving the crews of the other two sponging out. By the time they had loaded again, the stricken dhow was blazing like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes night.

  “They are trying to break through the boom!” one of the men shouted, as they saw the burning ship steer into the entrance channel and, without checking its speed, bear down on the line of floating logs. They cheered again as it struck the boom, the mast tumbled down and the fire spread through her. Her crew leaped over the sides.

  Dorian was bathed in sweat as he worked over the guns, loading and laying. Even though the crews doused them with buckets of water, the metal still crackled like a frying pan, and at each successive shot the guns leaped more violently on their carriages. However, within the next hour they fired another twenty hot balls, and four of the dhows were ablaze. The vessel that had struck the boom had burned down to the waterline, another drifted aimlessly across the bay, abandoned by her crew, who had rowed ashore in the boats. Two more had been beached and the crews had abandoned them to burn while they escaped into the forest, all too aware that the ships’ magazines were crammed with kegs of black powder. Only the largest dhow had so far escaped the fire Dorian aimed at it. But it was locked into the bay, and could only tack back and forth across the open water.

  “You can’t dodge me for ever,” Dorian muttered. As the next ball was carried from the furnace, he spat on it for luck. The globule of saliva hit the heated metal and disappeared in a puff of steam, and at the same moment a huge shockwave of hot air blew across the hillside. It thumped painfully into their eardrums, and every man stared down into the bay in awe.

  The drifting dhow had blown up as the powder in her magazine ignited. A tall mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke boiled up into the sky until it reached higher than the hilltop. Then, as if in sympathy, one of the beached dhows blew up with even greater force. The blast tore across the bay and lifted creaming waves from the surface. It raced through the forest above the beach, flattening the smaller trees, tearing off branches from the larger trees, raising a storm of dust, leaves and twigs. The men who watched it were struck dumb by the extent of the damage they had created. They did not cheer again but stood and gaped.

  “One more left.” Dorian broke the spell. “There she is, pretty as a bride on her wedding day.” He pointed down at the big dhow as she came about and started back towards the beach below the fort.

  The cradle men lifted the ball, smoking and crackling, to roll it into the muzzle of the gun. Before they could do so another shout went up from every man: “She is scuttling herself. Praise God and his angels, the enemy has had enough.”

  The captain of the remaining dhow had seen the fate of the rest of the squadron. He made no effort to tack again but bore straight down on the sloping beach. At the last moment the dhow dropped her sail and went aground with such force that they heard her belly timbers snapping. She canted over heavily and lay quiescent, transformed in the instant from a thing of grace to a broken hulk. Her crew swarmed out of her, and left her lying abandoned at the water’s edge.

  “Enough!” Dorian called to his men. “We have no more need of that.” With obvious relief they tipped the hot ball out on to the earth. Dorian scooped a ladleful from one of the buckets of drinking water and poured it over his head, then wiped his streaming face in the crook of his arm.

  “Behold!” screamed the foreman of the furnace and pointed down. Immediately there was an excited clamour from the gun-crews, as they recognized the tall figure in cloud-white robes who clambered down from the stranded dhow and, with his distinctive limp, led his men along the beach towards the fort.

  “Zayn al-Din!” they shouted.

  “Death and damnation to the tyrant!”

  “Power and glory to al-Salil.”

  “God has given us the victory. God is great.”

  “No.” Dorian jumped to the top of the emplacement wall where they could all see him. “The victory is not ours yet. Like a wounded jackal into his hole, Zayn al-Din has taken refuge in the fort.”

  They saw the enemy seamen who had escaped from the other ships creep out of the forest, then hurry more boldly after Zayn al-Din. They streamed into the deserted fort after him.

  “We must smoke him out,” Dorian told them, and jumped down from the wall. He called his gun captains to him and gave them swift orders. “No more need for heated shot. Use only cold balls, but keep up a lively fire on the walls of the fort. Give them no rest. I am going down to round up all our men and lay siege to the fort. They have no foo
d or water. We left no powder in the magazine, and the guns on the parapets have been spiked. Zayn cannot hold out for more than a day or two.”

  A groom had already saddled his horse and Dorian rode down with every man who could be spared from the guns trooping after him. The men who had put up the token defence of the fort were waiting at the bottom of the hill to swell his ranks. He sent them to surround the building and make certain that none of the enemy could escape.

  He saw Muntu coming through the forest from the direction of the entrance channel, and rode to meet him. “Where is Smallboy?”

  “He has taken ten men and gone with Klebe to follow the wagons.”

  “Have you opened the boom, so that our ships can reenter the bay?”

  “Yes, master. The channel is clear.” Dorian lifted his telescope and checked the entrance. He saw that Muntu had severed the cable and the current had pushed the boom aside.

  “Well done, Muntu. Now take your oxen.” He pointed down the shore to where Zayn’s dhow lay stranded. “Get the cannon out of that ship, and drag them round to cover the fort. We will pound the enemy from all sides. Knock a breach through the walls, so that when Jim arrives with Beshwayo’s impis they can storm in and finish the business.”

  By late afternoon the captured cannons from the stranded dhow had been towed by the oxen into position and the first shots knocked clods of earth and shattered timbers from the walls of the fort. They kept up the bombardment all night, giving the besieged enemy no rest.

  In the dawn the Sprite sailed into the bay through the channel. She was followed by the Arcturus and the Revenge, shepherding all the captured Omani dhows and transports ahead of them. The warships anchored, and immediately turned all their guns on the fort. The three long nine-pounders on the heights of the bluff and the captured carronades from Zayn’s own ships were already hammering away. Between them they directed a withering fire on the fort.

  No sooner had the Revenge dropped her anchor than Mansur came ashore. Dorian was waiting to greet him on the beach, and ran forward when he saw his son’s head swathed in the bandage. He embraced him and asked anxiously, “You are hurt. How badly?”

  “A scratch on my eyeball.” Mansur shrugged it off. “It is almost healed. But Kadem, who inflicted the injury, is dead.”

  “How did he die?” Dorian demanded, holding him at arm’s length and staring into his face.

  “By the knife. The same way that he murdered my mother.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Yes, Father. I killed him, and he did not die an easy death. My mother is avenged.”

  “No, my son. There is still another. Zayn al-Din is holding out within the fort.”

  “Can we be certain he is in there? Have you seen him with your own eyes?” They both stared along the shore at the battered palisades of the building. They could make out the heads of a few doughty defenders behind the parapets. However, Zayn had no artillery and most of his men were crouching behind the walls. The thudding of their muskets was a feeble response to the thunder of the cannon.

  “Yes, Mansur. I have seen him. I will not leave this place until he also has paid the price in full, and gone to join his minion Kadem ibn Abubaker in hell.”

  They both became aware of a new sound, faint at first but growing louder with every minute. Half a mile down the shores of the bay a dense column of men trotted out of the forest. They ran in a precise military formation. Like the foam on the crest of a dark wave, their feather headdresses danced in rhythm to their step. The early sunlight sparkled on their assegais, and on their oiled torsos. They were singing, a deep warlike chant that thrilled the blood and rumbled across the top of the forest. A lone horseman rode at the head of the leading column. He was mounted on a dark stallion whose long mane and tail streamed back in the wind of his canter.

  “Jim on Drumfire.” Mansur laughed. “Thank God he’s safe.” A diminutive figure ran beside one of Jim’s stirrups, and beside the other a giant of a man.

  “Bakkat and Beshwayo,” said Dorian. Mansur ran to meet Jim, who swung down from the saddle and took him in a bear-hug.

  “What is this rag you wear, coz? Is it some new fashion you have struck upon? It suits you not at all, you should take my word on it.” Then he turned to Dorian with his arm still around Mansur’s shoulder.

  “Uncle Dorry, where is my father?” His expression changed to dread. “He is not hurt or killed? Tell me, I beg of you.”

  “Nay, Jim lad. Breathe easy. Our Tom is impervious to shot and steel. As soon as his work here was done, he went to take care of the women and little Georgie.”

  Dorian knew that if he told them the full truth about Guy’s intervention, he would not be able to fulfil his promise to Tom and keep the boys with him. They would rush off immediately to defend their women-folk. Quickly he glossed over his deception. “But what of your side of the battle?”

  “It is over, Uncle Dorry. Herminius Koots, who commanded the enemy, is dead. I saw to that myself. Beshwayo’s men have cleared the forests of the rest of them. The pursuit took all of yesterday and most of the night. They chased some of the Turks a league up the beach and over the hills before they caught up with them.”

  “Where are the prisoners?” Dorian demanded.

  “Beshwayo does not understand the meaning of that word, and I was unable to educate him.” Jim laughed. But Dorian did not laugh with him: he could imagine the slaughter that had taken place in the forest, and his conscience troubled him. Those Omani who had perished under the assegais were his own subjects. He could not rejoice in their deaths. His anger towards Zayn al-Din flared even higher. Here was more blood for which he must pay.

  Jim did not notice his uncle’s expression. He was still buoyed up by the wild excitement of battle and intoxicated with the taste of victory. “Look at him now.” He pointed to where Beshwayo was already parading his impis before the walls of the fort.

  The guns had knocked a wide breach through them and Beshwayo strode down the ranks, stabbing his assegai towards the breach and haranguing his warriors: “My children, some of you have not yet earned the right of marriage. Did I not give you opportunity enough? Were you slow? Were you unlucky?” He paused and glared at them. “Or were you afraid? Did you piss down your own legs when you saw the feast I laid for you?”

  His impis shouted an angry denial. “We are thirsty still. We hunger still.”

  “Give us to eat and drink again, Great Black Bull.”

  “We are your faithful hunting dogs. Let us slip, great king. Let us run!” they pleaded.

  “Before Beshwayo can send in an impi through the breach,” Jim said to Dorian, “you must order the batteries to cease firing so as not to endanger his men.”

  Dorian sent his runners out to the gun captains with the order. One after the other the batteries ceased firing. It took the message longer to reach the three guns on the heights of the bluff, but at last a tense, heavy silence fell over the bay.

  The only movement was the waving of the feather headdresses of the Beshwayo. The Arab defenders on the parapets looked down on this array, poised so menacingly before their walls, and their desultory musket-fire dried up. They stared bleakly upon implacable death.

  Then, abruptly, a ram’s-horn trumpet blared out from the walls of the fort. The ranks of black warriors stirred restlessly. Dorian turned his telescope to see a flag waved from the parapets.

  “Surrender?” Jim smiled. “Beshwayo does not understand that word either. A white flag will not save one of the men inside those walls.”

  “Not a surrender.” Dorian shut his telescope. “I know the man waving that flag. His name is Rahmad. He is one of the Omani admirals, a good sailor and a brave man. He was not able to choose the master he serves. He will not cravenly surrender. He wants to parley.”

  Jim shook his head impatiently. “I cannot keep Beshwayo in check much longer. What is there to speak about?”

  “I intend to find out,” Dorian said.

  “By God,
Uncle! You cannot trust Zayn al-Din. This might be a trap.”

  “Jim is right, Father,” cried Mansur. “Don’t give yourself into Zayn’s power.”

  “I must speak to Rahmad, if there is some small chance that I can end the bloodshed now and save the lives of those wretches trapped within the walls.”

  “Then I must go with you,” said Jim.

  “I also.” Mansur stepped up beside him.

  Dorian’s expression softened and he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Stay here, both of you. I will need someone to avenge me, if things go awry.” He dropped his hands and loosened his sword-belt. He handed the weapon to Mansur. “Keep this for me.” Then he looked at Jim: “Can you hold your friend Beshwayo and his hunting hounds on a leash for just a little longer?”

  “Be quick, Uncle. Beshwayo is not famous for his forbearance. I know not how long I can hold him.” Jim went with Dorian to where Beshwayo stood at the front of his impis, and spoke to him earnestly. At last Beshwayo grunted reluctantly, and Jim told Dorian, “Beshwayo agrees to wait until you return.”

  Dorian strode through the ranks of the Beshwayo impis. They opened before him, for those warriors recognized the quality of nobility in him. Dorian’s step was measured and stately as he strode towards the walls and stopped within easy pistol shot. He looked up at the figure on the parapet.

  “Speak, Rahmad!” he ordered.

  “You remember me?” Rahmad sounded amazed.

  “I know you well. I would not have trusted you otherwise. You are a man of honour.”

  “Majesty!” Rahmad bowed deeply. “Mighty Caliph.”

  “If you address me thus, why do you fight against me?”

  Rahmad seemed for a moment overcome with shame. Then he raised his head. “I speak not only for myself but for every man within these walls.”

  Dorian raised his hand to stop him. “This is strange, Rahmad. You speak for the men? You do not speak for Zayn al-Din? Explain this to me.”

  “Mighty al-Salil, Zayn al-Din is…” Rahmad seemed to search for the right words. “We have requested Zayn al-Din to demonstrate to us and all the world that he, not you, is indeed the Caliph of Oman.”