The Tiger's Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  They assembled on the sandy square outside the fort. Foy had gathered every able-bodied man in the settlement, the better to impress the Rani. A whole company of soldiers, their boots blacked and polished; all the Company’s writers and traders in their blue coats; and a host of bearers and servants. Some of these last carried gifts for the Rani, though the rest seemed to be there purely to add numbers to aggrandize Foy’s procession.

  Those who were to stay behind watched from the side lines: a few old men and boys, the survivors from the Kestrel, and the women.

  Foy stood at the head of his column, resplendent in a maroon coat and gold-buckled shoes, a long curling wig and a hat tufted with ostrich feathers. The effect would have been magnificent, if not for the obvious effort it took him. His face glowed almost crimson with the heat, and broad patches of sweat already darkened the shoulders of his coat. It was six miles to the Rani’s palace. Tom wondered if Foy would survive it.

  ‘He looks very fine, does he not?’ he said to Ana, who was standing with them.

  ‘He is a peacock,’ she said vehemently. ‘With a brain to match. I doubt he will even understand what the Rani tells him.’

  ‘Perhaps you should translate for him.’ Tom went over to Foy and suggested it. He looked appalled.

  ‘The Devil, you say? These are weighty affairs – the business of the whole Company hangs on this. I cannot conduct it through a woman.’ He placed special scorn on the last word. ‘It would humiliate me.’

  ‘I wonder if the Rani would agree with that,’ Francis murmured in Tom’s ear.

  Tom saw Ana was about to offer a sharp retort. He steered her away.

  ‘You must stay here and look after Sarah. If anything should happen to us, she will need all your care.’

  The anger in Ana’s eyes softened to concern. ‘You think you are going into danger?’

  ‘You saw how the Rani’s servants handled me last time.’

  ‘Then stay,’ she pleaded. ‘And Francis, too. Mr Foy’s business is not yours.’

  ‘I must go. I must have my sword back from that rogue Tungar, and this is my best chance. As for Francis, I would not make him go. But he is of an age where the prospect of danger only makes him more determined. I would not stop him even if I could. But Alf Wilson and the men will be here to protect you.’

  They fell in behind Foy, walking with Captain Hicks at the head of the infantry. Glancing back, Tom saw Foy had not left so much as a single sentry to guard the fort. A shadow of misgiving crossed his conscience. Should he really leave Sarah, Ana and Agnes so undefended?

  The sword, he reminded himself.

  The column moved slowly. It comprised over a hundred men, and the rains had softened the road to a quagmire. Soon Foy’s gold-buckled shoes were invisible under their coating of mud, while the sepoys’ breeches were spattered almost waist high. Even after an hour, they had travelled little more than a mile.

  Tom noticed all the sacks and bags the native porters were carrying. ‘Does Foy intend such generosity to the Rani? I did not think it was in his nature.’

  Hicks laughed. ‘Foy would not spend a drop of his own piss if he did not have to. Those bundles are powder and shot for the men.’

  ‘They do not carry their own?’

  ‘Mr Foy does not trust the men. He worries they are liable to turn on us.’ He kicked at a pebble in the road. ‘All he sees is the colour of their skins. He has no conception of their loyalty.’

  Tom’s misgivings deepened. He checked the priming on his pistols. He had borrowed a fine matched pair from Hicks, who had also lent him a blade, a serviceable army hanger that nonetheless made Tom itch to have the Neptune sword back at his side.

  They struggled on. The whole country seemed to have turned to water. Tom imagined this was how the world might have looked to Noah when he stepped off the ark. Trees dripped down their necks, puddles yawned at the roadside, and the maze-like channels of the backwaters glistened through the trees. Yet, in so much water, their greatest enemy was thirst. Their woollen coats and hats weighed on them as they trudged through the mud. The heat was like a gun deck in the thick of battle. Tom felt as if all the fluid in his body had been wrung out of him into his clothes.

  ‘There is a well at the next crossroads,’ said Hicks. ‘We can refresh ourselves there.’

  Tom tried to distract himself by studying the country they passed through. He was used to the wildernesses of Africa, but this was entirely different. Trees and flowers he had never seen before grew in lush abundance. Screw pines, tottering on their roots like stilts; custard apple, guava and papaya; a bush with leaves like holly and bright blue flowers.

  ‘It is a veritable garden of Eden,’ Francis exclaimed.

  ‘A fortnight ago, this was a parched country,’ said Hicks. ‘The rivers were mere trickles, and the plants had withered. When the rains come, it is made new almost overnight.’

  They passed a few villages, similar to the one they had found when they were shipwrecked. Palm-thatched huts straggled along the banks, while fishing nets dried on bamboo poles. Small channels diverted from the rivers fed into networks of pits, filled with brown pulpy masses. Hicks explained that these were coir pits, where coconut husks were steeped for months to prepare them for being spun into the yarn that would one day make the ropes and cables of ships. In other places, Tom saw women beating the fibres with short sticks.

  Children and adults alike ran from their tasks and gaped at the procession snaking through the forest. But Tom could not help feeling there was more than curiosity behind their staring faces. Even away from the villages, he could hear movement in the undergrowth; sometimes he glimpsed dark bodies running ahead of them through the forest. He had faced danger often enough in his life to trust his instincts. Now, he felt like a hunted animal.

  They reached a crossroads, where a makeshift wooden bridge spanned a creek. A small shrine to the monkey god Hanuman stood among a grove of yellow hibiscus flowers, and beside it was a well.

  Foy called a halt and hurried eagerly to the well. But when he looked in, he gave a cry.

  ‘It’s dry.’

  Tom joined him and peered down. Blocks of stone and rubble had been thrown down the shaft, filling it so deep that not even the high monsoon water rose above it.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Foy irritably. His face had gone past scarlet and was now almost white with the effects of the heat. ‘The Rani will entertain us when we reach the palace.’

  Tom sidled closer to him so the men would not hear. ‘I do not like this,’ he cautioned. ‘Someone has blocked the well deliberately. They know how the heat saps our strength: they want us weak and parched by the time we arrive at the palace. We should turn back.’

  ‘Go back?’ said Foy loudly. ‘Are you mad? We have over a hundred men – what harm can the Rani and her rabble possibly do us? Perhaps an interloper flees at the first sniff of trouble, but gentlemen in the Company’s service are made of sterner stuff.’

  For a moment, Tom let himself contemplate what he might gain by tipping Foy into the well. He restrained himself. All his instincts told him to return to safety, but the sword was a siren-song calling him forward.

  The road climbed into low red hills, the first risings of the Western Ghats. Paddy flats and coconut gardens mingled on their slopes. Ahead, in a valley nestled between wooded hills, loomed the palace.

  It was the first stone building Tom had seen since they left the fort. At least, parts of it were stone. The whole edifice was a rambling complex that had spread over decades like weeds colonizing a garden, throwing out wings and courtyards and turrets according to the mood of its rulers. Tom could see them rising behind the long, wooden wall that separated the Rani from her subjects.

  Foy drew up the column outside the gate. A dozen guards marched forth, wearing quilted jerkins over long white surcoats tied with orange sashes. Silvered helmets with long cheek flaps and nose guards hid their faces. They made two files, holding their firelocks erect. A man str
ode out between them.

  Tom stiffened. His fingers automatically went to the pistol in his belt. It was Tungar. He had changed from his warrior habit into a silk gown with intricate embroidery, his helmet replaced with a turban, but there was no changing that evil face with the dislocating scar down the centre.

  Hicks laid a hand over Tom’s. ‘Not now,’ he whispered.

  Tungar addressed them in Malayalam, speaking with exaggerated smiles that only served to show his blackened teeth. A young Indian boy came up from the back of the column to translate.

  ‘He says Rani not well. Too much toddy. You wait.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Foy sternly. He mopped his forehead. ‘We have travelled many miles with gifts for your poxy queen, and we do not expect to be kept waiting, d’ye hear?’

  Tungar’s smile widened ingratiatingly. He spoke again.

  ‘You wait,’ repeated the interpreter.

  ‘Damn you, I will not. I—’

  Tungar turned his back and sauntered away. Foy made to follow, but the Rani’s guards closed ranks, staring him down. The gate closed from the inside.

  ‘Now what are we supposed to do?’ demanded Foy.

  ‘You wait,’ said the interpreter.

  The hours dragged on, but Foy kept the column standing to attention in the full heat of the day. When Hicks suggested letting the men fall out, Foy rounded on him in fury. ‘Do you wish to embarrass me in front of the Rani? I am certain she will receive us at any moment.’

  But the gates stayed closed.

  Tom’s tongue felt like a dry brick in his mouth. Looking at Francis, he could see the boy was dazed with thirst. Anticipating a short march, they had brought no food: by mid-afternoon all the men were faint with hunger. One of the porters, a scrawny boy no more than eleven or twelve, collapsed. His friends tried to revive him, but Foy ordered them to leave him where he lay.

  Were it not for the Neptune sword, Tom would have taken Francis back to the factory that instant. Already, he wondered if there remained enough daylight to make the return journey.

  ‘When we see the Rani, I hope you will remember to enquire about my sword,’ he said to Foy.

  Foy gave a scornful laugh, though his mouth was so dry it sounded more like choking. ‘This is a diplomatic embassy. I will not risk the entire trade of this province for the sake of some gewgaw you have lost.’

  Before Tom could reply, the gate swung open. Tungar reappeared behind the line of guards. He bared his teeth in a grin.

  ‘The Rani is pleased to see you.’

  ‘You see,’ said Foy. ‘I told you all would be well.’

  Tungar’s guards led them through the gate, across a square and through another low archway. Tom hesitated. Everything felt wrong. But Francis and Hicks had already passed inside, and the sepoy column was pressing up behind him. Tom had to hurry to catch up.

  As he crossed the square, he became aware of some kind of commotion at the gate behind him. It seemed not all the bearers had been allowed inside, and now the gates were closing. He tried to see what was happening, but the flow of men pushed him under the inner arch.

  He came out into a courtyard. In a strange way, it reminded Tom of a coaching inn back in England, though on a much grander scale. At ground level, the square was ringed by an arcade, though most of the arches had been covered with coir mats and hangings so you could not see what was inside them. Guards with long pikes were stationed all around. Above, the high walls were ornately carved with foliage and animal figures. Figures moved behind the lattice screens that covered the windows, though Tom could not make them out clearly.

  Directly opposite him, on the first floor, a balcony looked down into the courtyard. Another six guards, with gold-plated helmets and bronze firelocks, flanked the door that led inside the palace.

  The courtyard could barely contain all the men. The porters who had got through the gate struggled through to deposit their gifts next to Foy, who stood at the front facing the balcony. The men pressed and jostled behind him. Tom searched the crowd for Tungar, but he had vanished.

  They waited. The interpreter reappeared at Foy’s side.

  ‘Tungar says when the Rani comes, your men fire salute.’

  ‘Of course.’ Foy shooed him away. ‘Does the fellow think I’m entirely ignorant of protocol? Bit of sound and thunder makes a great impression on the blacks.’

  Tom edged away, squeezing through the packed men to the perimeter of the courtyard. Something about the coir mats that masked the arcades made him uneasy. Leaning against the pillar of the arcade, he tugged the corner of the mat slightly aside and peeked in through the crack. In the gloom beyond he saw many men, lit by the steady glow of a slow match. They were standing around something large that was covered by a tarpaulin.

  A firm hand on his shoulder pulled Tom away. One of the guards scowled at him and shook his head. He pointed to the balcony, where the doors had opened, and put a finger to his lips.

  Tom shook his hand off his shoulder. He had to warn Foy that the Rani’s men were up to something fishy.

  But at that moment the Rani herself stepped out onto her balcony in a flutter of gauze and a sparkle of gems. Forty sepoys presented arms, then aimed their muskets at the sky.

  ‘Wait,’ Tom shouted desperately. But even if Foy would have listened, the words were drowned by a crisp volley of gunfire as the sepoys made their salute.

  The Rani smiled down from the balcony. She raised her arm in a lazy wave, then she let it drop to her side. Tom realized that this was a signal. Around the courtyard, the coir mats fell away, revealing the mouths of black cannon staring out from the shadows.

  Tom threw himself against the wall, just as the cannons fired in a blast of thunderous smoke. A volley of musket balls, scrap iron, and rusty nails swept through the ranks of the men who were packed shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard. The palace walls shook to the discharge.

  In an instant the courtyard was turned into a shambles. Only the back ranks of men were screened by the bodies of their companions in the front rank. Those under direct fire, were cut down almost to a man. The screams of the wounded mingled with the shouts of the sergeants desperately trying to rally the survivors whose muskets had been discharged in the salute to the Rani. But then the marksmen on the balconies above the courtyard fired down into the milling confusion of sepoys, and the guards around the perimeter charged in with their pikes, joined immediately by the gun crews who abandoned the cannon and waded in to the fight with swords and axes.

  And somewhere in the midst of all this was Francis. Tom could not see him, but he guessed the boy must be among a knot of men who had made a stand under the Rani’s balcony, where the marksmen’s fire could not reach them. He could see Hicks, his moustachioed hubladar beside him. The surviving sepoys formed a ring around them, desperately fending off the enemy. But they had discharged their weapons in the salute to the Rani, and their spare powder and shot was with the bearers locked outside the gate. Some had managed to affix their bayonets; others simply used their guns as bludgeons.

  Tom drew his sword. In the first rush of battle, no one had seen him pressed against the column. He came at the attackers from behind. Their quilted armour and long helmets defended their backs and necks, but their legs were unprotected. He sliced one man’s hamstrings, and, as he fell back, Tom ripped the helmet off his head and hacked through his skull. He snatched up the fallen pike and speared the next man like a wounded wild boar.

  The man screamed and the enemy turned on Tom. One man rushed at him, with bared sword. Tom took his guard, but before he could engage, the man dropped to his knees with blood spurting from a bullet wound in his back. On the balcony above the yard, Tom saw a marksman almost hidden by a cloud of smoke. He realized that the ball had been meant for him.

  At the same time he glimpsed Francis, in the front rank of the defenders under the balcony. Tom waded towards him, swinging and stabbing with the pike in his hands. Francis saw him and sallied forward to join hi
m. He ducked under the swing of an axe, stabbed the guard who wielded it with a bayonet thrust in his guts, and dragged Tom into the knot of defenders. One of the Rani’s guards tried to force his way into the gap, but Hicks stepped in front and fired his pistol into the man’s face.

  ‘We cannot stay here,’ Tom shouted. Pinned against the wall, outnumbered and outgunned, they would be massacred. Their only real hope was to cut their way out of the palace and escape back to the Company factory.

  ‘Do you still have the pistols I gave you?’ Hicks demanded.

  Tom nodded. He drew one and cocked it. Hicks reloaded the one he had just discharged.

  ‘On my word … Now.’

  They all fired at once, punching a hole in the ring of guards that surrounded them. The attackers fell back. Tom extended his sword and charged in, Hicks on his right and Francis on his left.

  ‘Stay together!’ he shouted. Once they left the shelter of the balcony, they came under fire from the marksmen again. A volley of musket fire crashed out and a ball knocked plaster from the wall beside Tom’s head, a sharp fragment scored his cheek. Tom wiped the blood away with the back of the hand that held the pistol and in the same movement he aimed and fired. The ball struck the man who had fired down at him in the forehead. He toppled over the balcony rail and crashed down into the courtyard. Tom grabbed the gun from the corpse and cut the ammunition pouch from his belt. He threw them both to Francis.

  ‘Keep those marksmen pinned down.’

  Francis knelt, loaded and fired. A guard on the balcony stumbled back, clutching his stomach. The others retreated, wary of this new threat.

  ‘Come on,’ bellowed Tom. The ebb of battle had opened a gap for them. Forsaking caution, he charged forward, hurdling the corpses of the men who’d fallen in the first onslaught. He nearly lost his footing as he slipped in the blood that covered the stones. Shots cracked from the upper levels; two of the men beside him went down. A guard stepped into his path, wielding a long pike. The hubladar hurled his bayonetted musket like a javelin and it caught him in the throat. He dropped under their feet.