by Wilbur Smith
Francis realized he had been foolish to give her money without getting anything in advance. He took out another coin, but kept it firmly pressed under his thumb.
‘This is yours. When you’ve taken me to him.’
The prostitute looked disappointed. ‘You’re a quick learner. I could teach you a few other things you’d never forget. For another coin that is.’
‘Take me to him,’ Francis insisted.
‘I don’t have to. I can see him from here.’
She pointed out the tavern’s window, smeared with lamp soot and salt spray. Beyond it was the harbour front, and the wooden jetty extending out into the bay. The Prophet’s boats had moored alongside, and a gang of black stevedores was unloading her cargo. In the midst of the bustle, three men stood talking, studying a bill of goods. Francis recognized the first two, the Prophet’s captain and the harbourmaster. The third was the tallest, standing over six feet with shoulders as broad as any of the porters working around him. He wore his thick black hair pulled back in a sailor’s queue. He was smiling as he talked, but his hard features said this was a man who would yield to no one.
‘The tall one is Tom Courtney,’ said the prostitute, with more than a little admiration in her voice.
Francis felt as though the blood was freezing in his veins. For so long, Tom Courtney had been an almost mythic figure, the demon who stalked his nightmares. Now he stood a few yards away, talking and joking with the other men. Utterly unaware of the vengeance that awaited him.
The prostitute read the look on Francis’ face.
‘You hate him,’ she mused. ‘You want to kill him. Yes?’ she asked, then as Francis started to protest, ‘Do not argue. I have seen the look that is in your eyes before, though mostly on men who had drunk a good deal more than you.’
Francis couldn’t take his eyes off Tom. ‘What of it?’
‘Tom Courtney is no stumbling sailor still on his sea legs. He’s the most dangerous man in the colony. The stories they tell of him …’ She shook her head.
His stepfather had failed in many things, but he had made sure Francis knew how to fight with sword and fists. More than once, Sir Walter’s debts had led him to the duelling field at dawn; he knew how to account for himself. Sir Walter had been a ferocious instructor, drilling Francis until his knuckles bled and his numbed fingers could hardly close around the hilt of his sword.
One day, this will save your life, he had insisted.
‘I can defend myself,’ Francis assured the woman stiffly.
‘Of course you can, luvvy,’ she leered. ‘But why take the risk? Do you even have a sword? You are not the only enemy Tom Courtney has in Cape Town. There are others I know who would be only too willing to help you.’
Reluctantly, Francis dragged his gaze away from the window and looked at her. ‘What are you offering?’
‘Buy me another drink, and I’ll tell you.’
As darkness fell, Francis climbed the hill. The sword in his belt slapped against his thigh, and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Its solid presence reassured him. This was how he would kill Tom Courtney: not the distant, anonymous death of a musket or pistol ball, but the intimate end of a blade through the heart. The same way Tom had killed William.
He cast a nervous eye at the men around him. They were dark figures, their skin grey in the moonlight. Long, straight-bladed cane knives swung easily in their fists.
Behind Francis, Jacob de Vries strode up the hill, swatting at the flowers by the roadside with his cane knife. The knives – heavy blades, more like swords – had been destined for the sugar plantations of Barbados, but the vagaries of trade had brought them to Cape Town, where Jacob had found more than one use for them.
He studied Francis, wondering about this raw English boy. When the prostitute introduced them, he’d half suspected a trap. The boy was so scrawny, his new beard barely hiding his callow cheeks, he looked as if a stiff drink could knock him down. But Jacob had put him through his paces with the blade he had found for him, and discovered he was a more than adequate swordsman: quick with youth, always aware, and with a few moves that had surprised even Jacob. And the fire in his eyes, when he spoke of Tom Courtney, could not be feigned.
Jacob knew that feeling well. Two years ago, he had been bringing a cargo of slaves down from Mozambique when his ship grounded on a sandbar. Tom Courtney had salvaged him – but as his fee he had forced Jacob to free all his slaves. He had lost a fortune, and one beautiful slave girl in particular he had wanted for himself. The bitch Sarah Courtney had taken her, teaching her manners and giving her a passage to England where she could live as a freedwoman.
Desire stirred in his loins as Jacob thought of the girl. She’d been completely naked when she came aboard, high breasted and hair plucked after the fashion of her tribe, leaving nothing to the imagination. He thought of what he would have done to her, and what he would do to Sarah Courtney once Tom was out of the way and could no longer protect her.
They reached the top of the hill. There were a few houses here, but one was empty: the owner had gone to Amsterdam, and wouldn’t return for months. Jacob and his men hid in the shadows of the garden wall, watching the boarding house opposite. Harpsichord music drifted out; lamps burned brightly inside. Through the windows, Jacob saw Tom and his brother and their wives sitting in the parlour. The brother wore a turban wound round his head, no better than a Kaffir. Jacob wondered if the turban would stay in place when he’d separated the head from its neck.
He tapped Francis on the shoulder. The boy jumped as if he’d pissed himself. Not a good sign, thought Jacob.
‘Do we go in now?’
Francis shook his head. Jacob wondered if he was having second thoughts. If it came to it, he could get rid of the boy with one stroke of his cane knife. Jacob knew places where bodies could be left, so that by the time anyone found them the jackals and vultures had picked them bare.
But there was no harm in waiting. And, in fact, a few minutes later, the door opened and Dorian Courtney came out, escorting a woman Jacob didn’t recognize. A half-caste, by the look of her. Perhaps he could find her later, once he was through with Sarah.
For now, Jacob couldn’t believe his luck. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the prospect of fighting both Courtney brothers – even with his strength of numbers – had worried him. Now he could pick them off one at a time.
He waited until Dorian and the woman were out of sight, then he grabbed Francis’ arm.
‘Now,’ he hissed.
But just as he was about to move, light flooded onto the lane again. Tom stepped out the door. Jacob ducked down hurriedly, but Tom was too lost in his own thoughts to notice the movement. When Jacob risked another glance, he saw him walking towards the high wall of the Company garden. He was unarmed.
Jacob chuckled happily. He looked at Francis again. Whoever you are, he thought, you have the Devil’s own luck.
‘Is that him?’ Francis asked. Sweat beaded on his face and his eyes were wide. Jacob wondered if he had the balls to see this through. It wouldn’t matter. Whoever wielded the blade, Tom Courtney would die that night anyway.
They followed Tom, keeping a safe distance behind. Again, luck was with them. Tom headed deeper into the garden, away from the town and anyone who might hear. He walked quickly, but he never looked back.
Scavenging hyenas giggled in the night. Francis drew his sword, trying to envision the look in Tom’s eyes as he suffered the killing blow. Francis had dreamed of this moment so long, but now it was upon him he felt more fear than anger. He had never killed a man before. The sword weighed his arm down, and his legs were as soft as wax.
Do it, he told himself. Do it for your father’s memory.
And five thousand pounds’ reward, added Sir Nicholas Childs’ voice in his head.
Jacob sensed his hesitation and started to move forward, the cane knife at the ready. Francis waved him back. ‘He’s mine,’ he mouthed.
Jacob shrugged and nodd
ed. The boy had paid him: let him have his chance. If he failed, Jacob was ready to finish it.
Francis drew back his arm. He had imagined this moment a thousand times on the long voyage from England. Yet now he was actually here, it was not like he had thought it would be. In his mind, he had called Tom’s name, and watched the surprise in Tom’s eyes turn to horror as Francis told him who he was, and the reason he must die. He had savoured the terror as Tom finally understood that justice would be done; had allowed Tom to fall to his knees and beg for his life, before finally ending it.
But now that he was here, all he wanted was for it to be over. His mouth was dry; he could not issue the challenge.
It did not matter, he told himself: the deed was all that mattered. He aimed the sword at the middle of Tom’s shoulders, holding the blade flat, the way his stepfather had taught him, so it would slide between the ribs. The blood sang in his ears. He stepped forward.
He trod too heavily. Gravel crunched under his foot. Tom spun around. For the first time in his life, Francis came face to face with the man who had killed his father.
‘Thomas Courtney,’ he asked, trying not to let his voice waver.
He looked surprised. ‘I am he.’
Francis lunged. Tom leaped back, just in time. The tip of the sword sliced open his shirt front; cold steel stung his skin, but it was only a scratch. The movement brought Francis too far forward, off balance. Tom could have knocked the sword from his hand, but already another figure was coming up beside the first, his heavy straight blade poised for a blow at Tom’s head. Tom retreated, out into a patch of moonlight that shone through a gap in the hedge.
In the moonlight he saw that there were five of them. He knew Jacob de Vries, and three of the others were familiar faces, rough men who he had seen before in Jacob’s company. The fifth was the youth who had attacked him with the sword. He had never laid eyes on him before. However, his features were hauntingly familiar.
He had no time to think about it. The boy came at him again, a flurry of quick, well-trained strikes that almost took his arm off. The other ruffians fanned out in a loose cordon, cutting off his escape and slowly tightening the net around him.
The boy was clearly the ringleader. The skill and ferocity of his attack marked him as the danger man.
‘Who in the Devil’s name are you?’ he challenged him. ‘Don’t I know you?’
The only answer he got was another lunge with the sword. Tom jumped back. Too late, he saw triumph light up his assailant’s face. The ground gave way beneath Tom. He tumbled down a muddy embankment into one of the empty sunken ponds. The youth stood at the top of the bank, breathing hard, looking down on his unarmed adversary.
Behind him, Jacob turned to one of his men. ‘Stay here with the boy, make sure he finishes the job.’ He would have liked to watch Tom die, but he had to get back to the house before Dorian returned. Dorian would be helpless if Jacob was holding a knife to his wife’s throat. Perhaps he’d make him watch what he did to her, before he turned his attention to Sarah.
He leered down at Tom. ‘It’s high time I paid a call on your pretty little wife. I’ll leave the boy to finish with you.’
With a last glance of triumph at Tom Courtney, he headed back to the boarding house. Two of his men followed; the third stayed with Francis.
In the bottom of the empty pond Tom was trying to recover his footing in the treacherous mud. He had killed so many men, perhaps it was inevitable that one day the angel of good fortune would desert him. His father had died before his time; so had his grandfather. But he still had no idea who this implacable enemy might be.
And while he breathed, he would not let Jacob de Vries lay a finger on Sarah. He pressed his hands into the mud to push himself up and there, half buried, he felt something hard and sharp. He wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled it out of the mud. It was a length of heavy three-inch pipe that had once carried water to feed the pond.
Francis came sliding down the muddy bank of the pond balancing like a dancer, with the sword poised to split Tom’s skull. Tom came to his knees and raised the metal pipe and blocked the blow. Metal rang on metal; but Tom was able to stop the blade inches from his own face.
Tom pushed back, throwing Francis off balance. Francis’ feet shot out from under him and he went down in the black mud. Tom pushed himself to his feet and ran at him with the metal pipe poised. But before he could reach him one of the other men charged down the bank brandishing a cane knife. Tom turned to meet him and ducked under the swinging blade. Then he grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand and used the impetus of his blow to keep him turning off balance, twisting his arm up behind his back until his shoulder joint popped out of its socket. The man screamed with the pain and dropped to his knees. Tom swung the water pipe in his right hand into his temple and he toppled face down in the mud.
Tom snatched up the cane knife from where it had fallen from the man’s hand and turned back to face Francis. But Francis was plastered with mud, and he had lost his sword as he fell. Now he refused to meet Tom again, and he staggered back up the bank, sobbing with terror and shame. Tom hurled the water pipe after him and it caught him in the middle of his back with a hefty thump. Francis screamed with pain but kept running. He disappeared into the darkness, and Tom let him go. His only concern now was for Sarah.
Jacob de Vries’ threat echoed in his ears as he started to run: ‘It’s high time I paid a call on your pretty little wife.’
Tom raced out of the gates of the garden and down the path that led to Mrs Lai’s boarding house. Two of de Vries’ henchmen stood on guard at the open door to the boarding house. They saw Tom coming but in the darkness they did not recognize him, and with the cane knife in his hand they took him for one of their gang.
‘You took your time, Hendrick,’ greeted one of them. ‘Jacob’s already getting started on the Courtney bitch.’
A high-pitched feminine scream echoed from the house and the two guards laughed and turned to peer back through the door. One of them died without seeing the stroke of the cane knife that killed him. The second guard heard the blow and the sound of the falling body and began to turn. But he was too slow. Tom’s cane knife chopped into the side of his neck, cutting through his vertebrae so that his head, still partially attached to his shoulders, flopped forward onto his chest.
As Tom jumped over their bodies and ran through the doorway with his heart pumping wildly, a pistol shot rang out ahead of him. He did not pause, but burst into the sitting room. Sarah stood across the room facing him, veiled in a thin cloud of gun smoke. Behind her crouched Mrs Lai, sobbing with terror and clinging to Sarah’s skirts.
In her right hand Sarah held her tiny flint-lock Derringer pistol still fully extended at arm’s length. On the floor at her feet was the spread-eagled body of Jacob de Vries. He lay face down. The back of his skull had been blown away by the exit of the bullet. His buttery yellow brains were splattered over Mrs Lai’s colourful Chinese carpets.
Sarah and Tom stared at each other for the hundredth part of a second then Sarah dropped the empty pistol and ran into his arms.
‘Tom Courtney!’ she cried, and her voice was half a sob and the other half hysterical laughter. ‘You promised to love honour and protect me. But where were you when the chips were on the table?’
‘Oh, my darling, my beloved darling.’ He dropped the cane knife and hugged her to his chest. ‘I shall never leave you again. Never! Never!’ Now they were both talking at the same time.
Then there was a fresh hubbub at the front door and Dorian came through it, shoving a dishevelled and mud-soaked figure ahead of him.
‘Sarah! Tom!’ Dorian shouted with relief. ‘Thanks be to Allah, you are safe. I heard a pistol shot and then I saw this creature running down the hill.’ He gave his captive a kick in the back of his knees which dropped him to the floor. ‘I thought he was up to no good so I grabbed him.’
Tom saw that it was the youthful swordsman who had attacked him i
n the Botanical Gardens.
‘Yes! He is one of the gang, if not the ringleader,’ Tom said grimly. Still with one arm around Sarah protectively he came to stand over the man on the floor.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded in a murderous tone. ‘Give me a good reason why we should not kill you the way we have done with your henchmen.’
The man on the floor looked up at him. Then with an obvious effort managed to control his terror, and scowled, ‘Yes, Thomas Courtney. You are a natural born killer. You murdered my father – why not do the same to me, his son?’
Tom flinched at the accusation and the ferocity of his expression faded into uncertainty. It was a few seconds before he could gather his wits.
‘Tell me then, who was this person that you accuse me of murdering?’ he demanded.
‘My father was William Courtney, your half-brother and my father.’
‘William …’ Tom gaped at him, ‘You cannot mean that Billy, Black Billy was your father?’
‘Yes, sir. William was my father.’
‘Then that must make you Francis; Francis Courtney.’
Again, Tom remembered the green flash of the Mermaid’s Wink. A soul returning from the dead.
He stooped and took Francis by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. ‘It seems that you and I have much to discuss.’ His tone was mild, but tinged with remorse, ‘At the very least I owe you an explanation.’
When Francis awoke, he was lying in a feather bed. After months at sea, cramped in a narrow cot, it felt like heaven. For a moment, he thought he was back in High Weald, waiting for the servants to bring his breakfast.
He rolled over. A spasm of pain went through his side, and he remembered everything. He wasn’t at High Weald. He hurt all over, he realized.
He opened his eyes. A coffee-skinned woman sat beside him, a shawl drawn over her hair. Behind her, a huge black man with a scarred face guarded the door.
‘Where am I?’
‘In the house of Tom and Dorian Courtney,’ said the black man.