‘All the same, I don’t want any of you wandering off on your own, hoist in?’ Killigrew told his men. ‘And please bear in mind that while we do have firearms, the natives outnumber us; and we’re on their territory, so let’s remember we’re guests and be on our best behaviour. It’s true that these islands are renowned for the attacks of natives on traders and missionaries, but in most cases I’ve heard about, it was usually the white men that provoked them.’
‘I don’t reckon it’s all the white man’s fault, though, sir,’ said Molineaux. ‘I mean, imagine you’re a native on one of these islands. Cap’n Cook or someone like that comes by on one of his ships, with fine clothes with lots of shiny buttons, and guns, and all kinds of stuff which’d seem amazing to a native who’s lived his whole life in some poxy village in the back end of beyond. Of course the natives are going to want to get their fams on it, ain’t they? And if they can’t prig it, they’ll croak you for it. That’s human nature, ain’t it?’
Killigrew smiled. ‘I can see you’re not a believer in Rousseau’s theory of the noble savage, Molineaux.’
‘I ain’t saying the savages are any worse than us, sir; I just don’t think that automatically makes them any better than us, either. Coves are coves, the world over; that’s my experience, and I’ve seen more of this world of ours than most folks. Some of the worst savages I ever met wore inexpressibles and weskits, and spoke of God and Christian duty.’
The village was formed of a loose circle of small, open-ended huts with thatched roofs. Most of the huts had an adjoining pen where pigs rooted and squealed. The preparations for a feast seemed to be underway. Dark-skinned women in grass skirts were grating manioc to form a doughy paste, helped by children as naked as the day they were born, with great mops of curly blond hair which looked out of place above their cherubic brown faces. An old man with a wizened face was carving some kind of idol out of a log with patience and care.
Moltata led his guests to the largest of the huts, open at one end but with a closed section at the back, and invited them to sit with the village elders on mats woven from pandanus leaves. Coconut halves containing some kind of milky, mud-coloured fluid were handed out. Moltata tipped his coconut half so that a few drips fell to the packed-earth floor before taking a draught. Then he signalled for Robertson to drink next.
‘You have to spill a few drops on the floor before you drink it,’ Richards warned Robertson. ‘It’s supposed to be good luck.’
The commander looked dubious, but complied before taking a sip. There was a murmur of approval from the natives.
‘How is it, sir?’
‘Not bad,’ allowed Robertson. ‘A little earthy for my taste, but not bad at all.’
‘Chin chin,’ said Killigrew, and he and Strachan raised their coconut halves to their lips.
‘How is it brewed?’ asked Robertson.
‘The village boys bring the kava roots to the nakamal each afternoon, wash them, and chew them up into a mush, spitting out the hard bits on to leaves,’ explained Richards. ‘Then they put the mush into a bowl, add water, stir it with their hands, and filter it through coconut fibres.’
Both Killigrew and Strachan froze with their coconut halves tilted to their lips. Strachan lowered his as quickly as politeness would allow, but Killigrew drained his before smacking his lips. ‘Mm! Delicious.’
‘More?’ asked Moltata.
‘No more,’ Killigrew told him.
Moltata shook his head. ‘More, more!’ he insisted, and before Killigrew could protest one of the other natives had refilled his coconut half. The lieutenant was forced to sip it while Strachan grinned at his discomfiture.
‘All right, let’s get down to business,’ Robertson told Richards. ‘Explain to Moltata that we understand that several villages on this island have been attacked by white men, and their young kidnapped and taken away to be used as slave labour. We’re here to investigate.’
On the voyage from Aneiteium, Robertson and Killigrew had agreed they would start off with this part of their explanation, in order to win acceptance from the natives. Later on, perhaps, Killigrew would tell Richards about Mrs Cafferty and the escaped convicts; if the Lucy Ann showed up but then realised she was about to sail into a trap, Killigrew would need to commandeer the Vanguard in order to give chase. Whether or not he explained any of this to Moltata would have to wait until he was confident he could explain the situation to the yeremanu.
Richards translated Robertson’s words, and the village elders responded with beams and nods of approval. While the natives debated amongst themselves, Robertson addressed Killigrew in a low voice.
‘I’ll be leaving with the Tisiphone in the morning. According to Yelverton’s calculations, if the Lucy Ann is bound for Thorpetown she won’t arrive before Friday – that gives us more than enough time to get there ahead of them.’ Thorpetown was on the island of Éfaté, about a hundred and twenty miles north-west by north of Tanna. The Tisiphone would be able to steam there in less than fifteen hours. We’ll wait there for two weeks. If the Lucy Ann doesn’t show up in that time then we can safely assume that she isn’t coming. We’ll head back here and hope either you or Hartcliffe have had better luck, so expect us around the twenty-fourth; earlier, if the Lucy Ann does show her face at Thorpetown.’
‘And Mrs Cafferty?’
‘Then God help her, for there’ll be nothing more we can do for her. Any notion of how you’re going to proceed here on Tanna?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll need bull’s-eyes, flags, two dozen men, and plenty of arms and ammunition. Oh, and victuals. If the natives’ food is prepared similarly to their drink, I can’t see our lads relishing it; besides, I’d rather not have to rely on the natives for victuals if I can help it.’
‘You don’t trust them?’
‘It’s not that, sir. I know we Europeans like to think of islands like this as the garden of Eden, but the truth is that most of these natives have barely enough for their own needs. That’s the mistake Cook made when he went back to Hawaii for provisions. The natives there were generous to start with, and I’m sure Moltata’s people would be the same; but Cook outstayed his welcome, and in the end it cost him his life.’
‘Sensible thinking,’ Robertson said approvingly. ‘Where will you make camp? Somewhere near the centre of the island, so that when – if – the slavers come, wherever they land you’ll be able to get to them as quickly as possible?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘That was my first plan, but I had to dismiss it. It’s a good twelve or thirteen miles from the middle of the island to the furthermost point. If the slavers attacked at the south end of the island, we’d have rough country to cross – it would take us too long to get there. I don’t want to divide my forces, so we’ll stay here at Port Resolution. I’ll position a lookout on one of the mountains so we get advanced warning of the approach of any ships.’
‘All right. I’ll let you have Corporal Summerbee and three of his marines, and seventeen bluejackets.’
‘All right.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ asked Strachan.
‘Good point,’ said Robertson. ‘You’ll need a medical officer in case anyone gets hurt or falls ill; you won’t have the same resources here on Tanna that Hartcliffe has access to on Inyeug. It sounds to me like Mr Strachan is volunteering his services.’
Killigrew suspected that Strachan might have an ulterior motive for volunteering to exchange the comforts of the Tisiphone for two weeks on an island full of savages and the prospect of having escaped convicts to fight, but as long as the assistant surgeon performed his duties, he would have no complaints. ‘We’ll be happy to have him. I just hope we don’t have need of him.’
* * *
‘She come this way, Cap’n.’ Tavu, one of the Lucy Ann’s muscular young Polynesian harpooners, pushed himself to his feet with the haft of the tomahawk he carried, and indicated where the trail led up out of the trees to the arid slopes of the central plateau that r
ose above them.
He also had a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder, and had exchanged the trousers and guernsey he wore on board the Lucy Ann for a kilt woven from pandanus leaves, and precious little else. As much as he looked to Lissak to be at home on the deck of the whaling ship, now he really looked in his element, a savage on a savage island. ‘She pass this way half one hour, one hour, no more.’
‘Good work, Tavu.’ Quested stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. They had spent the hour before dawn quartering the jungle for Mrs Cafferty, but not until the sun had risen over the Isle of Pines had Tavu been able to find any traces of her passing: a freshly broken twig here, a stone overturned there to reveal its damp underside, moss scuffed from a rock a little further on.
Within a minute, the three of them had been joined by Cusack, Wyatt, Mangal, and the other six men from the Lucy Ann. Mangal had plucked a yam and was munching on its flesh, the juice running down his flabby jowls. Eats like a pig as well as looking like one, Lissak thought uncharitably. In spite of the fact that Wyatt had seen to it that his thug croaksman had received double rations when on Norfolk Island, Mangal had still gorged himself as soon as they had arrived on the Lucy Ann, as if he had starved in the penal colony.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Wyatt.
‘You were right, Mr Forgan,’ Quested told the second mate. ‘Looks like she made it ashore after all.’
‘She’s alive?’ exclaimed Cusack, evidently both astonished and delighted.
Quested nodded. ‘Tavu’s picked up her trail.’
‘Trail!’ spat Wyatt. ‘It could be anyone’s trail. How does that heathen know it’s hers?’
Quested looked at Wyatt with dark, warning eyes. ‘If Tavu says it’s her trail, it’s hers. He could track a ghost over the ocean, if he had to.’
Forgan took out a handkerchief and mopped sweat from the underside of his jaw. ‘Looks like she’s heading for the higher ground.’
Quested nodded. ‘Trying to get her bearings, find her way to the mission.’
‘Why follow her, then?’ demanded Wyatt. ‘Why not just make our way to the mission and wait for her to show up?’
Quested smiled. ‘And what are we going to say to the missionaries?’
‘I ain’t frightened of a couple of priests.’
‘Nor am I, Mr Wyatt. But if we kill them, the chances are we’ll have the French Navy after us as well as the British. Besides, she won’t be able to see the mission from up there: Pic N’Ga is in the way.’
‘Pic N’Ga?’
‘A peak in the south-west corner of the island. Come on. She’s no more than an hour ahead of us. Rest assured, Mr Wyatt, we’ll catch her.’ Quested set off after Tavu, and the others followed.
Cusack fell into step beside Quested. ‘You seem to know this island pretty well.’
‘I should do. I’ve been here a few times in the past, trading sandalwood.’
‘But it doesn’t pay as well as whaling?’
‘Nothing pays better than whaling, if you can find the whales. If you can’t…’ He shrugged. ‘The income from sandalwood is steadier, if you know where to find the trees, how to deal with the kanakas, and aren’t afraid of a little risk. But there’s nothing to match the thrill of whaling. Six men in a boat pitted against the leviathan of the deep. Now, that’s a challenge, Mr Cusack.’
As the slope above them became steeper, the trail left by Mrs Cafferty doubled back on itself several times as she searched for a way up. By the time they reached the crest of the plateau, they were all dripping with sweat beneath the tropical sun and panting from their exertions. Unlike the coastal lowlands of the island, the plateau was an arid landscape with no plants taller than clutches of bracken that grew here and there.
Tavu pointed off to the north-west. ‘She go this way, Cap’n.’
‘But the mission’s back that way.’ Forgan pointed to the south-west.
‘She doesn’t know that.’ Quested took the telescope he had brought from the Lucy Ann from under his arm and extended it, raising it to one eye to survey the landscape. After a moment, he stopped the sweep of the telescope and moved it back a fraction. ‘Ah-ha. There she goes. She’s about four miles off, headed in the direction of Paddon’s trade house. She can’t know— God damn it!’
‘What’s wrong, Cap’n?’ asked Forgan.
‘There’s a ship in the Bay of Crabs.’
‘The Tisiphone?’ Cusack asked in alarm.
‘No. It’s a schooner.’
‘You don’t think—’ began Forgan.
‘No,’ Quested cut him off sharply, tapping him on the chest with his hook. ‘And neither should you. Don’t think, and don’t talk. Just do as I tell you.’ He gave Forgan a significant look, the point of which was lost on Lissak.
‘If she gets to that ship…’ warned Wyatt.
‘She won’t,’ Quested assured him. ‘Tavu, you go after her and see if you can catch her before she gets there. The rest of us will go back to the Lucy Ann and see if we can head her off. We’ll meet you at Paddon’s trade house.’
Chapter 14
Speculation
It had been a hard climb to the crest of the plateau, but from there it was downhill in almost every direction. Mrs Cafferty had hoped she would be able to see the mission or one of the trading stations from up there, but she had been disappointed. She decided the best thing to do was to descend to the coast on the far side of the island from the Lucy Ann, and then follow it round until she found some semblance of civilisation. She could not help thinking that even the sanctuary of a native village would be an improvement on the Lucy Ann.
She was halfway across the plateau when she saw the ship about five miles away, anchored in a bay in the north-west corner of the island. Her first thought was that she had lost her bearings and it was the Lucy Ann, but when she glanced over her shoulder she could see the whaling ship’s masts in the V of a valley which had opened up off to her right. Realising that her escape from this ordeal was less than an hour’s walk away, she made straight for the unknown ship. Even though it was more than twenty-four hours since she had last slept, she forgot her exhaustion and broke into a stumbling run, terrified the ship might weigh anchor and set sail before she got there.
The land dropped gently down on the far side of the plateau and a mile further on she lost sight of the ship when she descended into the forests on the north side of the island. The sunlight lancing slantindicular through the boughs above her from the right gave her some indication which direction she was heading in.
The jungle was wild and beautiful at that time of morning, the sounds of the tropical birds crying to one another in the trees above her almost melodious. A thin mist hung between the trunks of the araucaria trees that towered high above her, picking out the beams of sunlight and making them look almost solid. Hosts of butterflies danced amongst the bracken.
And then the birdsong died.
Mrs Cafferty stopped. For all she knew, it was a perfectly natural phenomenon, the same as the crickets in India had all stopped chirping at the same time of the evening. But whereas a moment ago she had almost been enjoying the walk, now she felt uneasy. It was as if the forest hid a thousand malevolent eyes, all watching her. Not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, she listened to the silence.
She was just being jumpy, she told herself. Hardly surprising, after the ordeal she had been through. But she was wasting time: that ship was not going to remain anchored in the bay for ever.
She took a step forward and a twig snapped beneath one of her boots. Something came whirring out of the bushes at her and she threw up her arms with a cry of alarm, but it was only a dove. She laughed out loud at her own foolishness.
Something stung her on the shoulder, and in the same instant she heard a flat crack behind her. She whirled, and saw a cloud of blue-tinged smoke drifting through the trees perhaps three hundred yards behind her. Nearby, a frond of bracken waved to and fro, although there was not a bre
ath of wind to stir it.
Her fear returned all at once, multiplied a thousandfold. The eerie beauty of the jungle had lulled her into a false sense of security; but she was not away for slates yet, as her husband would have said. She set off walking again, more hesitantly now. Realising her shoulder felt wet, she glanced down and saw a crimson stain spreading across the upper sleeve of her guernsey.
She had been shot.
Feeling sick with the realisation, she struggled to control a rising panic. She was still standing; how bad could the wound be? She grabbed the neckline of the guernsey and pulled it aside to look at her shoulder. The bullet had creased her: the wound was not deep, but it was bleeding steadily.
She realised that was the least of her problems. Whoever had shot her was still out there somewhere, reloading his rifled musket. She knew enough about firearms to know it must have been a rifle, at that range.
She broke into a run. Another shot sounded. She heard the bullet sough past her head and saw it kick pale splinters from beneath the bark of a tree trunk ahead of her, but she did not waste time glancing over her shoulder. Tearing a strip from the bottom of her guernsey and wadding it against the wound in her shoulder, she redoubled her efforts. She dodged through the trees, stumbling over thick buttress roots and fending off fronds of bracken that lashed her face. She thought she saw another figure moving through the trees to her right, but when she looked again there was nothing. Then she crashed into a tree and fell to the ground, winded, but picked herself up and ran on.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. No sign of her pursuer. Perhaps she had outrun him… She looked to her front once more, and that was when he stepped out in her path from behind a tree and slammed the stock of a rifle against her midriff.
She was hurled to the ground a second time. He slung the rifle from his shoulder and hefted a tomahawk. A savage figure, naked but for a kind of kilt and a cartouche box, one of the harpooners from the Lucy Ann.
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 24