‘Mr Killigrew?’ She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her back.
‘It’s all right, you’re safe now. We’re back. We made it.’
‘What about my brother? Where is he?’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Killigrew, hugging her tightly and rubbing her back. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She let out a sob.
‘If it’s any consolation, miss, we managed to take care of the swine that murdered him,’ the black man said in an English accent. She recognised him as the cook from the Leopardo now, although his accent had changed.
She pushed herself away from Killigrew and dried the tears that prickled her eyes on one of her elbow-length gloves before turning to the black man. ‘No, as it happens it is no consolation whatsoever,’ she told him coldly. ‘It won’t bring my brother back, will it? He was the gentlest, kindest man that ever lived. The last memorial he would have cared for is cold-blooded revenge.’
‘I’m sorry, miss, but it wasn’t cold-blooded, believe me,’ said Killigrew, looking guilty. ‘And there are plenty of other gentle and kind people out there who’ll suffer if we don’t put a stop to Salazar and Madison and their activities.’
She handed the brace of pistols to Killigrew. ‘Who is this?’ she demanded, tossing her head in the black man’s direction.
‘Able Seaman Molineaux,’ explained Killigrew. ‘It’s all right, he’s on our side.’
The black grinned. ‘My friends call me “Wes”, miss.’
‘Do they indeed, Mr Molineaux?’
‘Who was that screaming?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Assata. I was in that tree and there was a snake and then she appeared below me and pointed her pistols at me and the snake was going to strike so I grabbed it behind the head but I fell out of the tree and then she was kicking me so I made the snake bite her, heaven help me, and she ran off. I think I may have murdered her!’
‘Self-defence, miss,’ Killigrew assured her. ‘No one will blame you for it. She’d’ve done the same to you, and with less provocation. But we’d better get moving. Even if that snake was poisonous, I suspect Miss Assata will live long enough to point Salazar and his cut-throats in this direction.’
No one argued with that and they set off through the trees, Killigrew leading the way. He held out one of the pistols to Molineaux. ‘You know how to use one of these?’
‘Just give me half a chance!’
‘Well, don’t. Not unless you really have to. The sound of a gunshot will bring Salazar’s men running, and right now we have more than enough problems as it is.’
The foliage grew thicker and a moment later they emerged from the trees to find themselves standing on the south bank of the creek. ‘Can we swim across?’ Miss Chance asked dubiously.
‘Yes,’ said Killigrew. ‘Unfortunately, so can they.’ He pointed across to where dozens of crocodiles silently patrolled the water in the moonlight.
‘Then we have to go back and head south, to Monrovia,’ said Molineaux. ‘It’s closer than Freetown, anyway.’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘That’s exactly what Salazar will expect us to do.’
‘Well, what do you suggest we do? We can’t stay here, and now you tell us we can’t head north or south. That only leaves swimming the Atlantic!’
‘We go inland.’
‘Inland! Are you crazy? Into the interior? We’ll never get out alive!’
‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’ Killigrew motioned for Molineaux and Miss Chance to halt, and then pointed up ahead, to where Madison’s gig was tied up to a wooden jetty which projected out into the creek. ‘We’ll head upstream in that.’
‘Don’t you think those two plug uglies with muskets might have something to say about that?’ asked Molineaux.
Killigrew hefted the pistol in his hand. ‘You two wait here.’ He disappeared into the bushes off to their right. For a couple of minutes everything was silent and Miss Chance and Molineaux were alone with the sounds of the jungle at night. Things were livelier in the direction of the barracoon, where someone was shouting orders, trying to draw order out of the confusion. On the far side of the creek she heard the mournful cry of a whippoorwill.
The two guards on the jetty stood in companionable silence, their muskets slung over their shoulders, one of them smoking a clay pipe. A moment later the pipe fell to the jetty, the guards gaped, and they both raised their hands. Killigrew emerged from the shadows, covering them both with his pistol, and motioned for Molineaux and Miss Chance to come and help him. They relieved the guards of their muskets, tied them up with their own belts, and then removed the boots of one so they could gag them with his socks.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ said Miss Chance, and nodded to where she could see lights in the trees further down the creek, where they had just come from. ‘It looks like they’re closing in.’
‘All right,’ said Killigrew. ‘Get in the gig, Miss Chance. Cast off the painter, Molineaux.’ He finished gagging the two men and then jumped down into the gig, taking up one oar while the seaman took the other and pushed them out from the jetty.
‘My hands are still killing me after pulling on those sweeps all afternoon,’ grumbled Molineaux.
‘Mine too,’ Killigrew said tightly, and nodded to where the men with torches were emerging from the trees. ‘But if we don’t keep rowing I don’t imagine those gentlemen will be in a mood to tend to our blisters.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Miss Chance, feeling like useless baggage and hating it.
‘Can you shoot?’ Killigrew asked hopefully.
‘I’m willing to try, but I’m afraid I’d only be wasting bullets.’
‘All right. You sit tight, and maybe say a prayer for us. We’ll soon have you out of here.’ Killigrew and Molineaux sat side by side on the bench and hauled mightily on the oars, swiftly propelling the gig up the sluggish waters of the creek.
The men on the bank reached the jetty, stopped and levelled their muskets. Powder flamed in the darkness and a flock of ibises rose honking into the night sky as the first shots echoed over the mangrove swamps. The musket balls buzzed through the darkness, occasionally plopping into the water close to the gig, but none came too close for comfort. Some of the men tried to pursue the gig on the bank, but the undergrowth was thick and they soon fell behind.
Killigrew and Molineaux were too busy rowing to return fire. The firing died down once Salazar’s men had all discharged their muskets and there was a pause while they stopped to reload. Then there was more firing, sporadic now as each man fired as soon as he was ready, but they were even further behind now and the shooting was yet more erratic. A few moments later another bend in the creek had hidden the gig from their view. Killigrew and Molineaux kept rowing, desperate to put as much distance between them and the slavers as possible before sun-up, which was only a couple of hours away now.
‘Can we stop now?’ asked Molineaux. ‘I reckon we’ve lost them—’
A couple of canoes shot out of a side-channel off to their right, each containing six men. All the men had muskets slung over their shoulders, but they did not aim them yet, hoping first to overhaul the gig.
Killigrew and Molineaux redoubled their efforts, but it was hopeless. The sleek canoes were built for speed, and they had more rowers. ‘Take this,’ said Killigrew, handing Molineaux his oar.
‘What? You’re going to leave me to do all the work?’
‘Trust me.’
The first canoe drew level with the gig. The men in the canoe still did not bother to unsling their muskets: presumably Salazar had told them to bring Killigrew and the others back alive if they could.
Killigrew felt under the thwart in the stern sheets and found a wooden cask. Taking it in both hands, he stood up suddenly, balancing easily in the rocking boat, hefted the cask above his head and hurled it at one of the men in the canoe. The man dived out of the way, upsetting the next man, and then the cask smashed th
rough the bottom of the canoe. It filled with water and foundered at once.
The crocodiles in the water changed direction and closed in on the men swimming in the water.
The gig left the sinking canoe behind, but now the second canoe was moving in for the kill. This time they did not come too close, but two of the men in the bows of the canoe levelled their muskets. Even with only four men paddling, it easily outpaced the gig.
The muskets boomed and Miss Chance gasped as a musket ball splintered the gig’s gunwale close to her hand. Then Killigrew had picked up one of the muskets they had taken from the men on the jetty, brought it up to his shoulder, aimed and fired, all in one smooth motion. The first musketeer did not even cry out, just fell back silently against his mate, his arms flung wide, his musket falling into the water.
Miss Chance was shocked by Killigrew’s coolness as he executed these men, even though she knew he had no choice, and yet she was also glad she had someone as proficient at killing as him to protect her. He might kill just as unhesitatingly as the men who sought to capture them – perhaps even more so – but what made him different from them was that he would never harm her, was even prepared to risk his own life in order to preserve hers.
He picked up the next musket, fired again, and the second musketeer fell over the side of the canoe.
One of the men from the first canoe suddenly got his hand on the side of the gig and tried to grab Miss Chance. She shrieked in alarm and kicked him in the head. Another man appeared on the other side of them, and Killigrew smashed the butt of the musket into his face. A third tried to swim after them, but a crocodile surfaced behind him, its jaws gaping, and a moment later the man was dragged under. Horrified, Miss Chance covered her eyes.
‘It’s all right,’ said Killigrew. ‘It’s just the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed.’
‘Cannibalism, if you ask me,’ said Molineaux. ‘I’ve never seen reptiles eating reptiles before.’
Another shot rang out from the second canoe, which was still overhauling them even with only three men paddling now. Killigrew braced his feet on the bottom boards and took careful aim with his pistol. Another man died, and Miss Chance quickly snatched the other pistol from Molineaux’s belt and handed it up to Killigrew. He took careful aim again, but then hesitated.
‘Shoot, for Christ’s sake!’ urged Molineaux, still heaving on the oars.
‘It’s our last shot,’ said Killigrew. ‘And there’s three of them. Miss Chance, could you look in the bow locker and tell me what you find?’
She opened the locker. ‘There’s a bag of tools… something made out of canvas… some rope… and a bag filled with water.’
‘That’ll be the sea-anchor, miss.’ He tucked his pistol in his belt and reached into his pocket. ‘And it isn’t water. Pass it here.’
He took the bag from her and held it out over the side of the gig, puncturing it near the top with his clasp knife. A little liquid dribbled down the side and dropped into the river. Killigrew took the pistol from his belt and held the flash pan against the hole in the bag. He pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide, but the flash ignited the liquid. It flamed quickly, and he tossed the bag at the canoe. The bag burst against the prow of the canoe and sprayed the three remaining men with burning oil. They screamed and beat at their burning clothes and hair, before jumping into the water. The crocodiles closed in, and the burning canoe drifted away with the sluggish current.
Killigrew’s own hand was on fire. He doused it in the river, and then resumed his place on the bench beside Molineaux, taking up the other oar. A couple of minutes later they had left the scene of carnage behind them.
‘Now all we have to do is find our way overland to Monrovia,’ said Killigrew.
Molineaux rolled his eyes. ‘He makes it sound so easy.’
Killigrew grinned. ‘Trust me.’
* * *
They did not stay in the boat much longer. About half a mile further on, the channel widened where the river led out of the mangrove swamps and shortly afterwards they came to some rapids. In other circumstances Killigrew would have suggested they carry the gig between them to the head of the rapids; the fact was that his hands were in no condition to help carry a boat several hundred yards through thick jungle with the prospect of more rowing at the end of it, and he doubted Molineaux’s hands were any better. The blisters they had developed pulling on the sweeps earlier had burst now, and their palms were raw and bloody. He wanted to get away from the water as quickly as possible anyway. In another hour it would be first light, and dawn was when the miasma overlying tropical rivers and swamps which caused malarial fevers were at their worst.
They rowed into the river bank, where thick foliage overhung the water. Killigrew tested the depth of the water with an oar and then jumped over the side, landing chest-deep in the water. ‘Come on,’ he told Molineaux.
The seaman was about to follow him when he hesitated. ‘What about the crocs?’
‘I think we left more than enough to keep them occupied down river.’
Molineaux cast his eyes over the water as if to make sure there were no crocodiles now rushing through the river towards Killigrew, and then realising he had no choice he swallowed hard and followed Killigrew over the side. Between them they pushed the foliage aside and pulled the gig hard against the bank, handing Miss Chance out and on to dry land. Molineaux followed her up, and Killigrew tried to angle the gig’s bows up on to the bank. ‘Molineaux, take the prow and pull, I’ll get behind and push.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to sink it?’
‘Yes, but if this turns out to be an island we’ll only have to refloat it. Once we get it on the other side of these bushes it’ll be invisible from the river, even in daylight.’
Molineaux pulled, Killigrew pushed, and between them they managed to drag the gig up the bank and through the bushes. A short distance from the bank the undergrowth thinned out and disappeared altogether, but so few moonbeams could penetrate the canopy it was pitch black beneath.
Killigrew wanted to get as far away as quickly as possible, but their chances of navigating through the trees in the darkness were non-existent. ‘It’ll start getting light in an hour,’ he said, gazing upwards towards the canopy. ‘We’ll be able to get going then. Until then, two of us can sleep. Who’s going to keep watch?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Molineaux. ‘You swam from the beach to the Leopardo and back again, I only swam back. Stands to reason you’ll be more in need of a doss than me.’
‘All right,’ Killigrew said gratefully. ‘We’ll sleep in the gig,’ he told Miss Chance. ‘We’ll be more comfortable there.’ Which was not entirely true, but he did not want to worry her by telling her that in the boat they would be marginally safer from snakes and spiders and scorpions and whatever other nasty stinging things inhabited the jungle.
Killigrew had no recollection of actually getting into the boat; the next thing he knew, he was awoken by a piercing shriek. Lying next to him, Miss Chance awoke too and clung to him in alarm. ‘What was that?’
Killigrew shook his head woozily. He had had so little sleep he felt as if he would have been better off not sleeping at all. ‘I don’t know…’
There was another ear-splitting shriek, and then the whole jungle seemed to come alive with howls and screams. Although it was still dark, there was enough light to see by now, and they could make out the trees stretching high overhead, like the pillars of some great Gothic cathedral, reaching up to the vaulted forest canopy perhaps a hundred and fifty feet above them.
Miss Chance seemed to realise that she was clinging to Killigrew more tightly than propriety would have approved of, and let go of him quickly with a sheepish grin. ‘Where’s Molineaux?’ Killigrew asked her. She shrugged.
There was no sign of the seaman. Had he headed back to the barracoon to lead Salazar and the others to where they were hidden?
A moment later Molineaux appeared, running through the trees with a look of s
heer panic on his face. ‘What the hell’s that sound?’ he demanded of Killigrew.
‘I don’t know. Whatever it is, it isn’t human.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘It’s probably just monkeys or something. Where did you go?’
‘I had to pump ship.’
‘“Pump ship”?’ asked Miss Chance.
‘Answer the call of nature,’ Killigrew explained delicately, feeling guilty for having suspected Molineaux of betraying them.
Molineaux was peering at him with a curious expression on his face. ‘Sir?’
‘What?’
Molineaux gestured towards Killigrew’s neck. ‘You’ve got some kind of slug sticking to you.’
A leech, Killigrew realised with revulsion, and reached up to pull it off before remembering that if you did that they were supposed to leave their heads inside you. He quickly rummaged about in the gig’s emergency supplies until he came up with a box of brimstone matches, and handed it to Molineaux. ‘It’s a leech. Burn it off.’
‘You sure about this?’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘Hold still.’ Molineaux struck one of the matches and held it under Killigrew’s jaw until the leech curled up and fell off.
‘You’d better avert your gaze, miss,’ said Killigrew, stripping off his clothes. ‘There may be more of these things. They must have stuck to me when I went in the water last night. You too, Able Seaman. Strip. You check my back, I’ll check yours.’
‘You’re clear,’ Molineaux told him at last. ‘How about me?’ He glanced down at himself. He was covered in them. ‘Oh, yeuch! Gerremoff me!’
Killigrew painstakingly worked his way around Molineaux’s body. He noticed that there were scars on Molineaux’s back. ‘I thought you said Madison never flogged you?’
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