‘I understand,’ she whispered, her breath warming his cheek like a kiss. As if by accident her hand fell on to his thigh. He drew back hastily and the hand fell away. But he heard her give a little sigh. She had felt him.
Time passed tensely. Slowly, painfully slowly, the yellow moon started to drift behind scudding cloud. Darkness began to descend upon the glade. The idle chatter died away. One of the Pindarees walked over to his mount, swung into the saddle and unslung his carbine. Perhaps his chieftain had given him a previous order to patrol the trail at this time. At all events, he started to walk the horse away from the glade.
John sucked his teeth. That left only one horse for the two of them. But it also left only one Pindaree to tackle. He counted ten. The horseman had vanished, there was no time to be wasted. He crawled forward, carefully parting the shrubs and thinking their leaves made a devil of a noise.
She followed on hands and knees, the tiny lady’s pistol grasped in her dirty hand, face as determined as his. For Georgina Lanham was no shrinking violet — she intended to survive, and if she had to kill to do so, why not? The hammer of the pistol was ready cocked.
Only a matter of yards from the unsuspecting Pindaree, John wiped his hands dry of sweat on his ragged buckskins. He wanted a firm grip on the creature’s skinny throat right from the start; he could not afford a cry for help. The damned Pindarees were everywhere.
He launched himself and his hands found and tightened around the brown throat, exerting every bit of his strength. The Pindaree writhed, clawed and kneed viciously for the crotch. John dodged expertly, hopping as if on the dance floor. His breath coming in frantic, hectic sobs, he pressed and pressed.
The man’s struggles weakened. His eyes bulged. The veins on his face stood out like writhing purple snakes. Suddenly he went limp, but John did not yet relax his murderous pressure. He hung on, his fingers biting deep into the neck, now swollen and engorged with blood. The man’s tongue hung out of his gaping mouth like a piece of purple leather.
After what seemed an age John let go, gently lowering his victim to the ground. Nothing happened. The man made no move. He was dead all right, his dhoti polluted and stinking with his own body wastes.
John leaned against a tree for a moment, his hands shaking.
‘Good,’ she breathed, her eyes shining, ‘you did it, John!’ It was the first time she had used his name.
He did not seem to hear, but stood with chest heaving as if he had just run a great race. Then he blinked and her beautiful face came into focus. ‘Yes ... Georgina,’ he gasped. ‘Come, we must — ’
Coming round the bend in the trail was the other Pindaree and it was quite clear that he had seen them, for his carbine was already at his shoulder.
John acted instinctively. It was a basic reaction, engendered by fear. He dived forward, grabbed the man’s leg and gave a tremendous tug. The Pindaree came sliding down from the rearing horse’s back, right on top of John and still holding the carbine.
In a flash he had twisted away from the Englishman and had risen to his knees, bringing up the little cavalry carbine. John could see the triumph in the hawk-like brown face as the trigger finger tightened. ‘Maro Feringhee,’ the man snarled, lips twisted in a cold sneer, ‘kill the Engl — ’
The crack came with startling suddenness. The man reared up, spine arched, face raised to heaven as if pleading for mercy. But there was no mercy this cruel night. Slowly, very slowly, he crumbled. The carbine tumbled from nerveless fingers. In absolute total silence, a trickle of bright blood running from his gaping twisted mouth, he sank to his knees, and now John saw Georgina.
She stood there, upper body at an angle, right arm level and outstretched, as if she were on some English shooting range, a thin wisp of smoke coming from the muzzle of her deadly little pistol.
With a slight thud, the Pindaree hit the ground. John stirred him with his foot, but he was dead all right. Her bullet had put a scarlet hole in his back.
Quietly and with no apparent emotion, she said, ‘The sound of that shot will have carried for miles. It’s best we move quickly, John.’
He nodded numbly. Together, like two grey sleepwalkers, they crossed the glade to the horses ...
It was a strange night of alarms and sudden scares. The Pindaree encampment and piquets were everywhere along the trail north, some in groups which seemed to number hundreds. More than once the fugitives nearly blundered into them, sleeping along the track or guarding it, and it was only because John had insisted they muffle their horses’ hooves with cloths taken from the dead men that they were able to withdraw unheard.
As they progressed north in this slow and hazardous manner, it became clear to John that de Courcy’s party had been wiped out, and that the rider who had been sent to contact Hastings had obviously not made it. That meant there was nothing but unfriendly territory between them and the Collector’s fort. Now the ocean’s horizon began to colour a sinister blood red, and John knew their time was running out ...
As if she could read his thoughts, Georgina broke the heavy silence, her voice husky and strained. ‘The ocean. That has got to be the only way, John.’
‘You mean some sort of boat?’
‘Yes, it doesn’t even need to have a sail. The prevailing wind here runs from south to north. All we need is a paddle to steer with.’
He laughed hollowly. ‘All we need, Georgina, is a boat! But where do we find it?’
‘One of the fishing villages hereabouts. They have boats and I have money still to buy one.’
‘But the Pindarees will be occupying those villages, too.’
She reined in her tired Arab and said, ‘Yes, but they can’t be alert all the time. And if we can’t buy a boat, then we must steal one.’
‘You’re right, Georgina. These horses are fast, but they haven’t much stamina.’ He considered a moment. Between them they had three pistols and he knew now that she was resolute and would use hers in an emergency. They might frighten off a small party of the marauders, but hadn’t a chance against a larger number. A boat was the only way out. He made up his mind. ‘Let us find a fishing village by dawn. We can hide through the day and — ’
Suddenly he nudged her mount off the track with an urgent, ‘Quick, there are riders coming!’ They smashed their way deeper into the jungle and dismounted to clap their hands over the muzzles of their abruptly nervous steeds.
The first riders into view were Pindarees, laden with loot, their carbines slung over their shoulders as if they were finished with marauding and were heading back to their mountain fastnesses.
Behind them came Nom de Dieu and his Frenchmen. When they were past, John and Georgina slowly relaxed their grip on the horses’ muzzles. She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘They were the French ... from the boat?’ she said slowly, reflectively, as if shocked to see these European gentlemen and ex-officers riding with the Pindarees.
Numbly he nodded his agreement.
‘But what...’ She stopped, for it was clear that John Bold was as puzzled as herself.
SIX
An hour later they were approaching the first fishing village warily, leading their weary mounts through the edge of the jungle, taking no chances. All the Pindarees may not have ridden north, as those with Nom de Dieu had done.
They could see grey wisps of smoke ascending lazily into the hard blue sky from some of the crude thatched huts resting on piles. Here and there, black skinny chickens and old dogs nosed and picked beneath the huts, but they could not see any people, nor any indication of whether the village was occupied by Pindarees.
John nudged a very weary Georgina. ‘Look,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘to the right of that bigger hut.’
She thrust back her unkempt blonde hair and stared. Some fifty yards away from the waves curling, then breaking with a soft hiss on the gleaming white coral sand, was a primitive boat: a hollowed-out tree trunk, supported by two rickety outriggers for stability, with a large carved prow representing some my
thical sea creature.
‘Not too difficult to manage,’ he whispered. ‘With a bit of luck we could push it into the sea in, at the most, five minutes.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘The wood of those craft is exceedingly light — and there’s a steering paddle too. To the right, in the sand. The only question now is whether those wretched Pindarees still hold the place.’
In answer there was a sudden sharp whinnying which indicated a horse, hidden somewhere from their view by the huts.
The happiness of their discovery vanished from John’s face. ‘They’re there all right,’ he said sourly. ‘I doubt if fishermen would have a horse.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘But you had anticipated that, John, hadn’t you? We must hide until we find a chance to steal the craft. Let us go.’
They found a thick clump of bamboo cane close to a stretch of marshy ground, flecked here and there with white salt licks, as if the swamp had been caused by flooding from the sea, and John hacked a tight burrow into the bamboo with his sword. Fortunately the sun had driven off the flies and mosquitoes, but it was terribly hot and sticky. They lay on the soft earth watching the village, their throats as parched and dry as cracked leather. They had not had a drink since the previous evening. Still they felt fit enough and confident, as they surveyed the village. It was obvious from their actions that the inhabitants of the hamlet were terrified of the Pindarees occupying the place. Emaciated, half-naked brown men crouched fearfully in the shadows, while their womenfolk, clothes across their faces, went about their tasks in a hurried, nervous manner. Their fear was tangible. The two hidden observers could smell it on the very air.
A heavily bearded swaggering Pindaree, hand clutched to the sabre at his waist, came into view, shouting arrogantly for food. A frightened fisherman, bowing and scraping, promptly brought a steaming bowl of rice and fish.
Over the next hour they saw a good dozen Pindarees, one of them dragging a poor half-naked girl who didn’t look a day over twelve. She was sobbing quietly, her spirit completely broken.
‘Now we know,’ John said thickly. ‘We’re easily outnumbered.’
‘Yes, but we have surprise on our side!’
He nodded and wondered. If the Pindarees started to drink after sunset, indulging in the potent rice wine of the area, then their reactions would be slowed down. The noise of a boat being pushed through the sand might take some time to register on their addled brains ...
At last it was night. One moment the sun had been burning in all its terrible bright-ness, the next it had slipped over the horizon and darkness came with the startling suddenness of the tropics. They left the bamboos and skirted the hamlet, blundering through the fetid stench of the mangrove swamp. Overwhelming thirst tormented them, and John knew they must drink soon.
Slowly they approached the still ocean, the water shimmering under the tropical moon, the noises of the village becoming steadily louder: the tired barking of the lean dogs, the scrape of a pan, an axe chopping wood, the raucous sound of someone already in his cups.
Another thirty minutes passed. Now they were crossing under a dark lofty tunnel of trees, with slippery mud underfoot. To their front a gentle mist was rising. There seemed something alive and malignant about it, like some evil creature watching their every movement.
In the ever-increasing gloom they began to tread more uncertainly, not sure that the curling shapes at their feet were tree roots or snakes. But all the same they progressed ever closer to the hamlet, hearing now by the steady beat of a drum. Perhaps the Pindarees were having some kind of celebration.
They came out of the jungle. Before them, wreathed in a low mist, lay the strand. But above them the yellow moon still shone. John cursed. Why couldn’t nature favour them for once? Nearby the drum continued its monotonous, nerve-racking beat.
He almost stumbled over the water trough in the low mist. It was a crudely hollowed-out tree trunk, supported on stones — and it was filled with liquid!
Cautiously he dipped his hands in it. She crouched next to him, her gaze fixed firmly on the flickering cherry-red fires of the village. He tasted, and his heart leapt. It was pure rain water, sweet and blessedly cruel. ‘Water!’ he croaked.
Together they gulped it down in great choking sups, lifting their heads whenever there was a strange sound, their foreheads matted with wet hair, the precious liquid running down their chins.
By the instant John felt fresh energy pulse through his dehydrated body. Suddenly he felt strong, confident of success.
But what did those damned drums mean? Squatting there, water still dripping down his chin, he peered at a slow procession of horsemen — moving out of the fishing village now. He gasped with shock, for in the ruddy wavering firelight he glimpsed a horrible, shrivelled thing hanging from one of the saddles, bobbing up and down obscenely, long black curls trailing down to the sawn-off neck.
Next to him, Georgina recoiled and her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. ‘Robert!’ she gasped.
John gritted his teeth, fighting off nausea. It was ... it was the head of Captain Robert de Courcy!
As the riders passed, the shocked fugitives, hidden in the undergrowth only a few yards away, caught a glimpse of an imperious proud face, hook-nosed and arrogant, surmounted by a great silk turban adorned with pearls. John had the impression of some great chief — perhaps one of those lubbars, as Colonel Monroe had called them — leading his warriors home. Then they were gone, and the drums ceased beating one by one, perhaps signalling the end of the Pindarees’ lethal foray into the Madras Presidency, only a handful staying behind to cover their withdrawal.
John pressed her arm tightly. For the first time he sensed that her nerve had almost broken at the sight of that severed head. With more confidence than he felt, he whispered, ‘It’s all right, Georgina ... all right,’ and stroked her arm soothingly. ‘They’ve had their fill of looting now. Those over there are just a rearguard. Look, they’re going back to their carousing.’ He indicated the half dozen Pindarees returning to the huts or squatting down again by the fires. ‘It’s time we set about our task.’
‘Yes,’ she said, recovering herself, her voice firm and clear. ‘We must be gone.’
Hand in hand they went to the boat. It was not tethered down in any way, and moved easily on the dry sand. Wasting no time, they slid it down to the waves. John’s triumphant grin was shattered by an alarm call from the hamlet.
Acting as one, they gave a final heave, the boat was afloat, and they tumbled in. John grabbed the paddle, thrusting it into the water from side to side, trying to control their direction. A musket ball screamed past his bowed head.
‘Malo Feringhee — kill the English!’ The Pindarees pelted across the sand. Another ball passed close and struck the water in an angry splutter.
‘My God, John!’ she screamed.
Already the first of their pursuers was in the water, ready to strike the killing blow.
Desperately he steered the light craft’s prow into the spluttering surf which seemed determined not to allow them to pass. Striking from left to right, his lungs wheezing like bellows, he thrust his paddle into the waves. Behind him the splashing of the Pindaree came ever closer.
‘Pistol,’ he choked to her. ‘Pistol!’
But she seemed frozen, the little pistol held uselessly in a limp hand, eyes wide, wild and staring, as the man raised his great curved sword to cleave the white man’s skull into two, black face set in a look of animal joy, dark eyes crazed with bhang.
‘Sh — ’ John’s impassioned last plea was drowned by the surge of water, as it suddenly took hold of the prow and raised it high. The attacker was caught completely by surprise. The great blade fell. But not on John. Instead their pursuer howled with absolute agony as he stumbled and the sword burrowed deep into his own vitals.
He staggered back, both hands trying to pluck the killing blade from his belly. But already it was too late. As he died on his feet and his fellows fired fruitle
ssly, the current caught the little fishing boat and swept it out to sea at a tremendous rate. They had done it!
SEVEN
The bright ball of the sun hung like a burning glass above the limitless sea. There were no enemies now, save nature itself.
John licked cracked lips rimmed with salt. There was no longer any need to wield the steering paddle. The current was taking them directly towards a thin pencil of land.
He glanced at Georgina who was clawing out handfuls of seawater and wetting her makeshift headgear with them. She was clearly at the end of her tether, her spirit almost broken. His heart went out to her.
*
It was night when the current brought the boat to the shore. Not knowing where they were, with barely the strength to move, they fell into gentle wavelets and crawled up the sand. They slept.
*
The old man with the skinny brown frame and fringe of white beard watched them as they came awake there in the fringe of palms by the shore, their rags steaming in the heat of the new sun. Then he stepped forward timidly, bowed, and said something in his own tongue.
Georgina started, but seeing the old man was harmless, replied in the native language.
‘What does he want?’ John asked, but before she could interpret, the old man indicated that they should follow him.
John felt too drained of energy to care much. If the old man was leading them into a trap, then so be it. He followed in a kind of weak-kneed coma. Georgina did the same, her face drained.
Their guide moved quickly as he led them through rotting mangroves to a clearing with the typical circle of thatched huts on stilts of a fishing village.
Again the old man bowed and indicated they should clamber up a rickety bamboo ladder into the nearest hut. They obeyed tamely, fighting for breath, for they were exhausted by the short trek. The hut was empty save for some crude rush mats and a few gourds hanging from the roof. They collapsed on the mats, overcome by weariness, but suddenly feeling secure. It was not a trap after all.
Bugles at Dawn Page 10