The Tiger's Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  Yet with Ana, he felt none of that. She had seen him without pretensions or privilege, and it had not repelled her. She spoke to him kindly, plainly and naturally. Though that brought its own torment, for he could not tell what feelings underpinned her words. He nursed the memories of her kindnesses, while if she was ever short, or did not seem to notice him, he teetered on the edge of despair. Each time she came on deck, he could concentrate on very little else. He fumbled with the traverse board, and lost his position in the back-staff tables he had to consult to read the angle of the sun.

  ‘You have put us somewhere in the latitude of Greenland,’ Tom reproved him one afternoon, when Francis’ calculation was unusually wide of the mark.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle.’

  ‘Have you heard of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell? Two years ago, he miscalculated his position and ran his fleet aground on the Scilly Isles. He lost four ships and near to two thousand lives, including his own, which at least saved the Admiralty the trouble of having to shoot him.’

  Francis hung his head. ‘I see.’

  Tom softened his tone. ‘You must understand, Francis, that there are only three men aboard who can shoot the sun accurately. If something were to happen to me and Alf Wilson – a storm, a pirate attack, a falling block – you would be the only man who could navigate the ship to safety.’

  ‘I had not taken that into account, sir.’

  ‘I did not insure this ship. The underwriter in Cape Town works for the VOC, and would have charged me more than I paid for her. All my fortune and more is bound up in this vessel. If she sinks, so do we all.’

  ‘I worry about his stepfather’s influence,’ Tom told Sarah that night, lying in their bed in the stern cabin. The ship had come fitted with a single, high-sided cot, but Tom had ordered the carpenter to extend it to accommodate the two of them. They lay side by side, both naked in the clammy tropical heat. ‘A gambler like that must have been a slave to his appetites. What if Francis learned the same habits?’

  ‘Then he will unlearn them.’ Sarah rolled on her side, laying her head on his chest and listening to his heartbeat.

  ‘And he has Billy’s blood running through his veins,’ Tom went on.

  ‘And my father cared only for the profit he could turn, and my mother could never enter the same room as a cream cake without devouring it. Yet am I such an incontinent monster?’

  Tom stared at the low ceiling. Above, he heard the measured tread of the men on watch pacing the deck.

  ‘What makes a man?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Is it what is in his blood, or what he learns from those around him?’

  Sarah propped herself up on her arm. She was a little past thirty now, but if anything more sensual than ever. Her golden skin remained flawless, her breasts smooth and firm and her eyes as clear and blue as the Devon sky.

  ‘Whatever Francis was made and whatever he learned, he will be his own man. And all you can do, Tom Courtney, is help him to find the right path to follow.’

  Her long hair spilled across his chest, tickling him. She traced the outline of the muscles with her finger, working her way steadily lower. Tom found his thoughts drifting to other things.

  Sarah kissed him on the lips. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I must confess, though, that I am not wholly free of my mother’s influence. In some ways, I am quite insatiable.’

  Their luck held almost to Cape Comorin, the southernmost tip of the Indian subcontinent. Once there, they would be safe from the monsoon winds that would soon make any navigation on the west coast impossible.

  ‘And once we clear the Cape, it is a fair run around Ceylon and up to Madras,’ said Tom, pointing to the chart spread out on his cabin table. He touched the wood to ward off bad luck. They had arrived right at the turn of the monsoon, and the wind had been stiffening all afternoon. They were not safe yet.

  ‘There are sapphire mines in Ceylon,’ said Ana. ‘The most beautiful, most precious stones in the world. It is said King Solomon gave them to the Queen of Sheba to woo her.’

  Across the table, Tom saw Francis start, and guessed what he was thinking. He glanced at Ana, wondering if her comment had been deliberately aimed to plant thoughts in Francis’ head.

  ‘Could we call in at Ceylon?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Maybe on the return voyage,’ Tom said. He meant to make a joke of it, but it came out sounding brusque. ‘At present, we could not afford a lump of cheese.’

  ‘There is a fortune to be made in gemstones,’ said Ana. Looking in her eyes, Tom saw no guile or games: only a merchant’s desire to take profit where it could be found. ‘A few years back, the Governor of Madras, Sir Thomas Pitt, bought a diamond that weighed nearly a full quarter-pound, four hundred and ten carats.’

  Even Tom was interested now. He let out a low whistle.

  ‘It had been smuggled out of the Golconda mines by an Indian labourer. He had to hide it in a suppurating wound inside his leg, so that the mine guards would not find it. Pitt paid twenty-thousand pounds, and when the stone is cut and polished it will fetch upwards of a hundred thousand.’

  ‘Is Golconda near Madras?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Two hundred miles inland. But all the best stones come to Madras.’

  ‘Then let us hope we make enough profit on our cargo to bring some back to Cape Town,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll wager—’

  He broke off. Something had changed: he felt it through the timbers of the ship. He started to rise, even before the knock came at the door.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,’ said the mate. ‘Wind’s backed, and weather’s boiling up ugly. The master says there’s a storm coming.’

  Tom ran out on deck. Even in the short time they had been below, a fearsome change had come over the sea. The waves swelled large around them; the wind hummed in the rigging with a high-pitched wail. An eerie, bruise-red light flooded the ocean as the sun tried to penetrate the angry clouds massing on the horizon.

  ‘Take in all sails except the main and mizzen staysails,’ Tom ordered. ‘Clew up the forecourse, but keep the yard half raised for steerage way. Prepare sea anchors and have them ready.’

  The men sprang to their work, racing up the ratlines to furl the sails. Tom called Francis.

  ‘Sound the level in the well.’ The well was a depression in the centre of the ship, where all the water from the bilges collected. Even in calm seas, water would find itself into the soundest of ships. With the storm, Tom knew, the pressure on the ship’s timbers would be immense. Waves would batter her hull and shift the planks; inevitably, leaks would spring. If the water was not pumped out promptly, the water would weigh down the ship, making her harder to steer and more vulnerable to waves crashing over her decks. Eventually, it might even sink her.

  Francis returned, holding the dipping stick they used to measure the well. ‘Six inches, sir.’

  ‘Not too bad.’ But Tom wouldn’t take any chances. ‘Once the sails are furled, double the men on the pumps, and relieve them every half hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Francis ran to obey. Tom turned, to find Ana and Sarah wrapped in their shawls.

  ‘Are we in danger?’ Sarah asked calmly. The wind blew her hair in wisps around her face.

  ‘Given our position, we should have a hundred miles of open sea ahead of us,’ said Tom. ‘Kestrel is a fine ship. With a little luck, we can scud before the storm until it blows itself out.’

  ‘And for now?’ asked Sarah. ‘What can Miss Duarte and I do?’

  ‘Get below and batten the hatches. And pray this storm relents.’

  The wind rose. The sea heaved. Now the waves were so high, he could no longer see over them. The Kestrel bucked and wallowed, her deck pitched so steeply Tom could barely stay upright. Night came, though the day was so dark it made little difference. No one slept. Tom prowled the deck, helping the helmsman manhandle the wheel against the heavy seas, watching for falling spars and tackle. The storm had come up so quickly, he had not had time to strike her topmasts: he could not dare to hope
he would escape without some part of his ship being carried away.

  Nor did he. Somewhere in the middle watch, well after midnight, an almighty shudder hit the ship with a noise that cut through the howling wind. Alf Wilson came running out of the darkness.

  ‘We’ve lost the bowsprit.’

  ‘Cut it away now.’ Already, Tom could feel the ship coming around as the fallen bowsprit dragged on her bow. If she turned broadside to the wind, the waves would roll her over like a barrel. The helmsman fought the movement, trying to correct course, but he could not stop her momentum. The sea was so strong it would snap the rudder.

  Tom led the men himself, battling the waves that poured over the prow. It was impossible to resist them: if not for the rope tied around his waist, he would have gone overboard. The heavy sea slapped him in the face and stung his eyes. He could hardly see to wield his axe on the tangle of ropes that still bound the bowsprit to the ship. Another wave pounded over him.

  He swung his axe at the forestay, the long line that ran from the foremast to the bowsprit. It was stretched taut to breaking: if it didn’t give, it would pull the whole mast down.

  His axe cut through it. Relieved of its tremendous pressure, the loose end whipped through the air. Tom darted out of its path as it lashed past, inches from his eyes, and struck the man behind him in the face. The man cried out and fell, just as another wave surged around him. The foaming water carried him towards the side.

  He was wearing a safety rope, but if he went overboard it would be no protection. The waves would dash him against the hull. Tom ran, slipping on the planks. He threw his arms around the sailor’s waist and dragged him back, just as the next wave broke.

  A thud shook the deck. For a terrible moment, Tom thought they’d lost a mast: he looked up, expecting to see it crashing down over him. But the mast was still there, a ragged sail flapping from its yard.

  ‘Did we hit something?’ There should not be any reefs or rocks in these latitudes – but the storm had driven them so hard he no longer knew where they were.

  ‘Bowsprit, sir,’ shouted Alf. ‘Must have struck the hull as we cut it loose.’

  Tom moved aft. Francis emerged from the companionway and staggered towards him. His hands were covered in blisters.

  ‘Water’s rising.’ He had to bellow every word to be heard over the storm. ‘It’s coming in faster than we can pump it out.’

  ‘Keep trying. I am relying on you.’

  The night seemed endless, and the storm never relented. Dawn slipped almost unnoticed over the horizon. The first Tom knew of it was when he realized he could see the rain. He rubbed his salt-crusted eyes as he took in the damage to his ship. As well as the bowsprit, she had lost her fore and main topgallant masts, and her main topsail yard. The sails he had set had been torn to ribbons: the Kestrel now ran under bare poles, though it hardly slowed her speed. The wind blew as violently as ever.

  ‘It could have been so much worse,’ he consoled himself. The ship was afloat, and all her crew had survived. They had enough canvas and spars to patch the damage and reach Madras. The water in the well was still rising, but with daylight they could start trying to patch the cracks in the hull. Francis had been down in the hold all night, taking his turn on the pumps and encouraging the men tirelessly. Tom was proud of him.

  The day grew lighter. Sometimes, as the ship tottered on the crest of a wave, he could see some hazy semblance of a horizon. Perhaps the storm was passing.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the helmsman.

  Tom looked up. ‘Where?’

  They both waited as the ship plunged into another trough. When she crested the next wave, he saw a smear of white on the horizon.

  ‘Breakers,’ shouted the mate. ‘Breakers dead ahead.’

  Tom grabbed a spyglass from the rack. ‘That’s impossible. We should be fifty miles from any land.’

  The horizon disappeared as the Kestrel plunged into the next trough between waves. A moment later, she was thrown back up onto the next crest. This time there was no doubt about it.

  ‘Land.’ In fact, the land remained invisible, shadows against the dark sky. But there was no mistaking the line of breakers, chewing the horizon like a row of gnashing teeth.

  Whether it was an uncharted reef, or the edge of a coast that should not have been there, Tom could not tell. At that moment, it was the least of his concerns.

  The cabin door opened and Sarah appeared, carrying a ship’s biscuit and a piece of salt pork. She moved nimbly across the deck, absorbing the ship’s movements.

  ‘You have not eaten all night. You must have food.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘There is land ahead,’ he told her. ‘I cannot tell how. The currents must have pushed us further north than I realized.’ He shook his head, aware he was wasting precious seconds. ‘It makes no odds. That land is there, and if we do not act soon we will be driven onto it.’

  Sarah read the look on his face. In all the years she had known him, through all the terrors they had faced, she had rarely seen him so distressed.

  ‘Is it so bad?’

  ‘We are trapped on a lee shore, in heavy seas, and we have no sails. It is about the worst position any ship can find herself in.’

  He ran up on deck. ‘We must bring the ship about.’

  Alf Wilson stared at him. ‘In this weather? You’ll dismast her – or worse.’

  ‘If we don’t, we will be driven onto that shore and smashed to pieces.’

  No one could argue with that. Sailors raced up what was left of the rigging, trying to bend on sail. The wind made their work almost impossible. The canvas bucked and snapped, resisting all efforts to tame it. The main topsail was carried away and vanished into the storm.

  ‘It’ll be a man overboard next,’ said Alf.

  ‘If we do not get canvas on her, we will all drown.’

  Without sails, they could not hope to get on a tack against the wind to carry them away from shore. Even under canvas, it would be a close run thing. They would have to put the ship about, through mountainous seas and in the face of a gale. And they had precious little time left to them.

  ‘Coast’s getting nearer,’ said Alf. With the low visibility brought on by the storm, Tom hadn’t realized how close they had already come. Now he could make out a strip of white sand, individual palm trees bending like swan’s necks in the gale.

  Pray God there are no rocks or reefs between us, he thought to himself. He looked at the pattern of the waves, reading them for more danger.

  A sailor thudded to the deck. For a moment, Tom feared he had fallen. He got up, rubbing his hands where he had burned them sliding down the backstay.

  ‘Sail’s set, sir.’

  Above, Tom saw the forecourse finally unfurled. It hung askew, spilling wind where it had not been sheeted home. It would have to do.

  ‘Put her about.’

  ‘We don’t have the steerage way,’ Alf warned.

  ‘We’ll club haul her,’ Tom decided. Club hauling was the last resort, a brute way of forcing the ship’s bow against the wind. Now they had no choice. At the bow, men tied a second hawser to the anchor and fastened it to the lee quarter.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said the mate. ‘If we lose the anchor, we’ll be at the mercy of the wind.’

  ‘We have to get away from that shore.’ Tom raised his voice. ‘Anchor away.’

  The anchor dropped overboard. At the same time, the helm went hard over. Slowly, slowly, the bow came around. The ship heeled over as it came broadside-on to the waves, rolling heavily.

  ‘Cut the cable.’ Men with axes chopped through the forward anchor cable. The ship jerked free. The stern cable took the tension, keeping the ship swinging around.

  But not enough. Against the onslaught of wind and wave, she did not have the momentum she needed. Her bows started to slip back downwind.

  Two more men joined the helmsman. Together, they hauled on the wheel, fighting to keep the ship’s hea
d up. Suddenly, they fell to the deck. The wheel spun round and round, no longer bound to anything.

  ‘Rudder’s gone,’ shouted the helmsman.

  ‘And the sail,’ said Alf. The forecourse had split down the middle, billowing open like a shirtfront.

  With no steerage way, the Kestrel slipped back. Waves battered her hull, turning her broadside to the surging seas. Tom looked to larboard, and saw a huge wall of water bearing down on them.

  ‘Grab on.’

  The wave hit the Kestrel square on her side, putting her on her beam ends. The world changed. Her deck rose almost perpendicular to the sea, while her masts heeled over so far they touched the waves. Men who had not had time to take hold found their footing swept from under them. They fell into the sea surging around the gunwale. Some managed to grab on to rigging; others were carried away. Tom saw the heavy timber of the anchor stock strike a man on the head. He went under and did not reappear.

  A cannon on the starboard side broke from its lashings. It rolled down the deck and crashed through the opposite gunwale. The other guns strained on their tackles.

  ‘Cut the masts,’ Tom cried. In a moment, the ship would roll back, and then the top weight of her masts would act as a murderous pendulum, increasing the roll and turning her right over, turtle-fashion.

  Some of the men still had their axes. They made their way to the mainmast, sliding and slithering across the foaming deck. It didn’t take much. As soon as two of the stays had gone, gravity and the sea did the rest, carrying the mast away in a welter of cordage and canvas. The men had to leap clear or risk being snared.

  The Kestrel began to roll again. Her deck turned back through ninety degrees and kept going. Further, further … Waves boiled over the side.