‘Slaves, Mr Strachan.’ Killigrew snapped the telescope shut and handed it to Cavan. ‘It seems Mr Thorpe was right: the scourge of blackbirding really has reached the South Seas.’
‘It looks like there are wounded people over there,’ said Strachan. ‘We have to go ashore and do what we can to help.’
‘Agreed,’ said Killigrew. ‘Get your medicine chest, Strachan. We’re going ashore. Ready the jolly boat, Ågård.’
‘Are you sure about that, sir? Looks as if they’re coming out to meet us.’ He pointed to where the warriors of the village, having collected their spears, war clubs and tomahawks, were converging on the three outrigger canoes drawn up on the beach.
‘They don’t look pleased to see us, do they?’ observed Endicott.
‘Can you blame them?’ asked Killigrew. ‘It was dark last night. They probably think this is the ship that attacked their village. Besides, the natives of these islands have a policy of communal responsibility. If a man from one tribe commits a transgression against another, then it is the duty of all members of his tribe to make reparations, or be punished. To the natives, all white men belong to the same tribe.’
The natives had pushed their canoes out through the surf and were now paddling furiously towards the Vanguard. ‘With all due respect, sir, they don’t look as if they’re going to ask for reparations,’ said Cavan. ‘Might I suggest that discretion is the better part of valour?’
‘Quite right, Mr Cavan,’ agreed Killigrew. ‘Yorath, Endicott! Brace up those sails, chop chop.’
The Vanguard could have stayed and made a fight of it: the Tisiphones on board might even have beaten the natives, although there were no guarantees. But Killigrew did not want to kill any natives simply because they knew no better, no more than he wanted to risk the lives of his own men for no good reason.
‘We’re leaving?’ stammered Strachan. ‘But there are injured people ashore! They need our help!’
‘Need it they may, Mr Strachan. Want it they certainly do not. You can’t do anything for them if you’re skewered on one of those spears.’
Killigrew spun the helm, bringing the bow round to port. He pointed the Vanguard north-west, so they would have the wind full behind them; but the three canoes continued to overhaul them. Seeing that the ship was turning tail, a few of the natives launched spears that whirred through the air and landed all around the schooner. A few buried themselves in the deck, and Endicott scrambled out of the way with a yelp when one missed him by a few feet.
‘Fire a couple of shots over their heads, Hawthorne,’ ordered Killigrew. The marine was a crack shot, and if any man could be relied upon not to hit any of the natives, it was him. ‘Perhaps that will discourage them.’
‘Or encourage them, by making them think we’re rotten shots,’ muttered Corporal Summerbee.
At the stern, Hawthorne fired, reloaded, and fired again. The natives paid no attention to the bullets that whizzed over them.
‘They’re going to catch us, sir,’ said Summerbee. ‘For God’s sake, let’s shoot a couple of them. That’ll make the rest think twice.’
‘Belay that, Corporal. I refuse to be party to any further butchery of innocent natives.’
‘Innocent! Attempted murder is a crime in any country the last time I heard, sir. And those kanakas have got murder in their hearts, or I’m a Dutchman. I’ve done enough killing to know I’m not overfond of it, sir, but there is such a thing as self-defence.’
Killigrew ignored him. ‘Take the helm, Ågård.’ He ran to the stern and leaped on the gunwale, balancing there as he waved his hands over his head and motioned for the canoes to keep their distance. ‘Go back! Go back, damn you! We don’t want to hurt you…’
The natives at once started to hurl spears at him. They whirled down around him, one narrowly missing his head.
‘That’s as good a way to commit suicide as any,’ remarked Molineaux. He sauntered over to the stern, keeping his head down. ‘Good idea, sir. You draw their fire.’
‘I’m trying to make them stand off!’
‘Yes, sir. Pity they don’t understand English.’ Molineaux unslung Richards’ hunting rifle from his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. The native sitting in the bow of the foremost canoe dropped his paddle and fell back, clutching a bloody wound in his arm.
‘’Vast shooting, Molineaux! Damn your eyes, didn’t you hear me say I didn’t want to kill any of them?’
‘He’ll live.’ Molineaux took another cartridge from his pocket and tore the top off with his teeth, pouring the powder down the barrel of the rifle. ‘Sir, much as I admire your principled stand on the issue, the only way we’re going to get them to back off is if we convince them we’re in deadly earnest.’ He inserted another ball in the muzzle, and then rammed it home expertly with the ramrod. ‘If you want to get yourself killed, sir, don’t let me stop you. But the rest of us would like to see England again.’ He primed the rifle with a percussion cap, and raised the stock to his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I don’t much like the idea of killing them either. I’ll aim to wound.’
‘And if you miss? If you kill him?’
‘See the cove sitting at the front of the canoe on the left, sir?’
‘What about him?’
‘Right shoulder.’ Molineaux fired. The native clapped an arm to his shoulder. ‘I never miss,’ the seaman asserted proudly.
Molineaux worked methodically, reloading, aiming, firing, and managing an impressive rate of three shots a minute; good enough to rival a trained rifleman. Each wound he delivered was painful enough to render the victim unable to paddle, without being life-threatening. Each wounded native took a fraction off the speed of the canoe he was in. After five shots, the canoes were starting to fall behind; finally realising they were on a hiding to nothing, they gave up and started to paddle back to the shore.
Killigrew rounded on Molineaux. ‘You disobeyed an order, damn you!’
‘That’s all right, sir,’ the seaman replied coolly. ‘No need to thank me.’ He lowered his voice. ‘With all due respect, sir, you may have lost the will to live back in Hong Kong, but some of us still value our hides. And there’s a chance – just a chance – that Mrs Cafferty is still alive. We can’t do anything for her if we get slaughtered by the natives now, can we?’
Killigrew did not know whether to damn the seaman for his impertinence or thank him for his common sense. He sighed. ‘Good shooting, Molineaux.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the seaman replied breezily.
Killigrew turned back to where Cavan and Strachan stood by the binnacle. ‘Want me to hold this course, sir?’ asked Ågård.
‘For now.’ The lieutenant cast his eyes about the sea. ‘Whatever ship attacked that village, it’s long gone by now. Damn it! We were here waiting for those blackbirders, and they still managed to land and take slaves before we could get there.’
‘They must’ve worked quickly,’ said Molineaux, slinging the rifle from his shoulder. ‘Remember on the Guinea Coast, sir? How the slavers used to take their time? Attack one village, and then use it as a base camp to seize the natives from as many neighbouring villages as possible? That way they got their pick of the bucks: good, strong labourers. But the coves who attacked that village last night, they didn’t want to linger. Almost as if they knew we were coming.’
‘Commander Robertson and I didn’t exactly make a secret of our itinerary and our plans on our way here,’ Killigrew said ruefully. ‘I’ll lay odds that word of mouth spreads surprisingly swiftly through these islands. The blackbirders must’ve heard we were on Tanna.’
‘Then why the devil did they seize natives from Tanna at all, sir, if they knew we were here?’ demanded Cavan. ‘If they knew that much, they must’ve known Hartcliffe and his party are at Aneiteium and that the Old Man’s gone on to Éfaté. Why not seize natives from some of the islands where they know we aren’t, so they could take their time?’
‘And another thing, sir,’ said Molineaux. ‘D
oesn’t it strike you as a little bit odd? The last raids took place two years ago. Then nothing. And then, when there’s a party of British seamen on Tanna, all of a sudden the raids start all over again. Bloody bad timing on the part of the blackbirders, wouldn’t you say?’
Killigrew smiled wanly. ‘Our presence doesn’t seem to have incommoded them in any way.’
‘Yur: because they just happened to pick the village furthest to reach by sea from Port Resolution.’
‘What are you trying to say, Molineaux?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ admitted the seaman. ‘I’m just saying, there’s something rum about this whole business.’
Killigrew was inclined to agree, but he could not put his finger on—
‘Oh, Christ! Put us about, Ågård. Hard a-starboard. Bring us about until we’re as close to the wind as you can get her. Luff and touch her.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The petty officer spun the helm.
Killigrew turned to Strachan. ‘How many men would you say live in each village that we’ve seen in these islands? Grown men, I mean.’
The assistant surgeon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A hundred?’
‘There were forty men in each of those canoes. A hundred and twenty in total. Even if it was a large village, the blackbirders didn’t get many, did they? If they got any at all.’
‘What are you saying, sir?’ asked Cavan.
‘We’ve got so caught up in the notion of slavers raiding this island… we don’t know for a fact that it was slavers who attacked that village. We don’t even know that any natives were kidnapped there last night. We only assume they were.’
‘Who else would attack a native village but blackbirders, sir? Who else would have reason to?’
‘Who, I don’t know,’ admitted Killigrew. ‘But I think I can guess why. Think about it. What benefit might someone have from attacking a village on the west coast of the island?’
‘I don’t know, sir. There are some deuced rum fellows in the world. Maybe the captain of that ship enjoys slaughtering natives the way some people enjoy hunting foxes. It’s twisted, I know, but…’
‘I suspect you’re right, Cavan. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that the captain of our mysterious ship took some kind of warped pleasure from attacking that village. But perhaps it was not a senseless attack; not in his eyes, at least.’
‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘Cause and effect, lad,’ said Strachan. From the expression on his face, he had seen what Killigrew was driving at. ‘That village was attacked last night to achieve something. What did it achieve?’
‘It got me out of my hammock in the middle of the night,’ grumbled Endicott.
‘Stow it!’ growled Ågård. ‘No one asked you your opinion.’
‘No, Ågård,’ said Killigrew. ‘I fear Endicott’s hit the nail on the head: the attack on the village got us out of Port Resolution, didn’t it? Gentlemen, I put it to you that’s exactly what the intention was. To draw us away.’
‘But why?’ asked Cavan.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Killigrew. ‘But I’ve an unpleasant feeling that all will be revealed when we get back there.’
Chapter 17
A Leap in the Dark
‘Damn it, how much longer must we wait here?’ Cusack asked Macy on the quarterdeck of the Lucy Ann.
‘I told you. My orders are to wait here until seven o’clock. If Cap’n Quested and the others aren’t back by then, my orders are to take over and deliver you directly to your friends in ’Frisco.’
The whaler was anchored off the west coast of the island, six or seven miles up the coast from the island they had attacked during the night. It was one o’clock in the afternoon – five and a half hours since the Lucy Ann had anchored – and Cusack had just come up after dining in the great cabin with Macy and Gardner. The ship’s lookouts had been ordered to keep a sharp watch for any natives seeking vengeance for the attack on the village. But there were no natives in sight, either by land or sea. There was no jungle ashore at this part of the coast, just a beach of black sand, some dark dunes, and behind that a broad plain of yellow elephant grass. ‘Does that satisfy you, Mr Cusack?’ concluded Macy.
‘Frankly, it does not. If Quested’s gone to collect trade goods from Port Resolution, why are we here? Won’t he have to carry the goods overland? Why not sail this ship into Port Resolution itself?’
‘For all we know, the Tisiphone is anchored at Port Resolution even as we speak,’ Jarrett said smoothly. ‘Quested learned from Thorpe that the Tisiphone is somewhere in these islands, looking for us. This way, he can make sure the coast is clear before he enters the harbour.’
Cusack shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard a word of truth from you or Quested from the moment we left the Isles of Pines,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve heard one word of truth from you—’ He broke off, and clutched at his stomach. ‘Oh God!’
‘Everything all right, Mr Cusack?’ asked Macy, an amused smile playing on his face.
In the blink of an eye, all the colour had drained from the Irishman’s face. ‘I don’t feel well… I… oh, God!’ He staggered across to the entry port and vomited over the side.
Macy turned to two of the spouters. ‘Mr Cusack has been taken sick. Help him down to his cabin and put him in his bunk.’
‘I’m fine!’ protested Cusack. ‘Just a little… oh, dear God!’ He doubled up again, retching drily, but there was nothing left for him to bring up.
‘Come along now, sir,’ said one of the spouters, helping him up. ‘You have a lie down and you’ll feel right as rain soon enough.’
‘I’ll send the doc along to take a look at you, see if he can give you something to soothe your stomach,’ said Macy. If Cusack heard him as he was helped down the after hatch by the two spouters, he gave no indication of it.
Laughing, Macy turned to Lissak and Jarrett. ‘Must’ve been something he ate.’
* * *
The sun had set and the sky was turning from a fiery crimson to a velvety purple by the time the Vanguard sailed back into Port Resolution, so the damage to the village was not obvious at first. Killigrew left Cavan to see to it that the schooner was securely anchored for the night, and went ashore in the jolly boat with Ågård, Molineaux, Endicott and Yorath. All four ratings carried muskets, except for Molineaux, who still had Richards’ rifle slung from one shoulder. As the men dragged the boat up through the surf, Killigrew waded ashore and ran up the beach with a pepperbox in one hand.
‘Richards! Moltata! Hullo?’
Except on nights when they were holding feasts, when they lit flambeaux and gathered round a bonfire, the natives tended to rise with the dawn and go to bed with the sunset; but even at this hour there was usually more evidence of life than Killigrew found. His cries failed to bring anyone to greet him, and there was an eerie silence over the whole village. He made his way to the nakamal; even at that hour, Moltata would usually have been there drinking kava with the village elders.
Except the nakamal was no longer there. Just a pile of ashes, still warm.
Ågård came running up with the bull’s-eye and shone the beam about, revealing more burned-out huts. ‘Looks like the slavers got here first, sir,’ he said grimly.
‘If slavers they were,’ agreed Killigrew.
The three seamen caught up with them. ‘What happened?’ asked Endicott. ‘Did the slavers kidnap the entire village?’
‘No bodies,’ remarked Molineaux. ‘That’s some good news, at least.’
‘It’s early yet,’ said Ågård. ‘Keep looking.’
A few huts still stood, and the five men carried out a quick search, glancing inside each of them, but found no one cowering inside. ‘Let’s try the trade house,’ suggested Killigrew.
They hurried across to Richards’ shack and paused on the verandah in front. ‘Captain Richards?’ called Killigrew. It occurred to him that whoever had attacked the villag
e might still be around.
‘But answer came there none,’ said Molineaux.
‘Give me the bull’s-eye, Ågård. Stand back, all of you.’ With the pepperbox in his right hand and the bull’s-eye in his left, Killigrew braced himself. ‘Richards?’ he called one last time. ‘It’s me, Killigrew. I’m coming in!’ He kicked the door open and jumped to one side, holding the bull’s-eye at arm’s length so that it would seem to anyone on the other side that someone was standing in the doorway, holding a torch.
When seconds passed without any answering fusillade of shots, he edged through the door, flashing the beam of the bull’s-eye around and following it with his pepperbox. It did not take long to establish that the shack was every bit as deserted as the village. ‘It’s clear,’ he called to the others.
While they shuffled in through the door, he hooked his pepperbox to his belt and set the bull’s-eye down on the counter. He found an oil lamp and lit it with a match. As its warm yellow glow spread through the dark room, Endicott gasped. Killigrew turned to look at him, and saw the seaman was staring at the back wall. Following his gaze, he saw a large piece of blue cloth nailed to the wall, and something written in what looked like dripping blood on the weatherboards beside it:
Killigrew –
Judgement Point
Midnight
Come alone or she dies
Ågård crossed to the wall and dabbed a fingertip against the writing. ‘It’s still tacky,’ he remarked. He touched a fingertip to his tongue.
‘Is it…?’ Endicott asked hesitantly.
Ågård spat. ‘Paint,’ he said.
‘Someone has an overdeveloped sense of the melodramatic,’ Killigrew said drily. He touched the blue cloth and rubbed it between his fingers: it was the evening dress Mrs Cafferty had been wearing the night she had been kidnapped. He tore it down and screwed it into a ball in his fists.
‘Where’s Judgement Point?’ Endicott wondered out loud.
‘I don’t know,’ Killigrew snapped back tersely. ‘Take the jolly boat back to the Vanguard and fetch the chart.’
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 30