by Wilbur Smith
‘Race you to the deck!’ Dorian cried, as he sprang into the rigging. Tom gave him a lead, then flew after him. Their feet danced over the rat-lines, and they dropped as though falling free, but Tom was soon narrowing the gap between them until, when he was almost level, he slowed to let Dorian reach the deck a foot ahead of him.
‘I won! I won!’ Dorian exulted.
Tom ruffled his shining coppery curls. ‘Don’t gloat,’ he said, and pushed him away. Then he looked at the small group in the Seraph’s bows. Mr and Mrs Beatty stood there with all their daughters, Guy with them. They were animated and excited, pointing out to each other the landmarks of this famous headland, next to Cape Agulhas, the most southerly point of the African landmass.
‘They call the white cloud sitting on top of the mountain the tablecloth.’ Guy was lecturing the group. ‘And that little hill there to the south of the settlement is called Lion’s Head. You can see the shape of it.’ As always he had studied the navigation books and knew all the details.
‘Guy, why don’t you go to the masthead?’ Tom called to him, not unkindly. ‘You’ll get a much better view from there.’
Guy glanced coldly at him, ‘Thank you, but I’m quite happy where I am.’ He stepped a little closer to Caroline, and began to turn away.
‘No need to be afraid,’ Tom assured him. ‘It’s quite safe.’
Guy rounded on him. ‘Are you calling me a coward?’ His face was suffused with blood and his voice cracked with indignation.
‘That’s not what I said.’ Tom laughed, and turned on his heel to go to the helm. ‘But take it any way you wish,’ he flung over his shoulder.
Guy glared at him, and mortification flooded over him. Tom had disparaged his courage, then dismissed him casually in front of the Beatty family and Caroline. Something snapped in his mind, and before he truly realized what he was about, he launched himself down the deck at a full run.
‘Tom, look out!’ Dorian yelled, but he was too late. Tom was turning to protect himself but Guy crashed into him with all his weight and momentum while he was balanced on only one foot. It sent him reeling against the gunwale, with such force that the wind was driven from his lungs.
Guy leaped onto his back and threw a full arm-lock around his neck. All the boys had taken regular wrestling instruction from Big Daniel, and though Guy was slow and maladroit at the sport, he knew all the holds and throws, and now that he had this killer grip he was making the most of it. He braced himself with one knee in Tom’s back, and used the counter-thrust of one arm against the crook of the other, to block off Tom’s windpipe and put the strain on his spine so that at any moment the vertebrae must snap. Tom reeled about the deck tearing at Guy’s arms with desperate fingers, gradually weakening, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air.
The crew came running to watch the show, hooting with excitement, stamping and shouting encouragement to their favourites. Then, above the clamour, a bull voice roared, ‘Back throw, Klebe,’ and Tom reacted instantly. Instead of resisting the hold that was dragging him backwards, he changed direction, throwing all his weight and strength into a back somersault. Guy found himself hurled backwards with such force that he had no choice but to release his grip and fling back both arms to break his fall, otherwise his ribs would have been stove in.
Tom turned in the air like a cat, and was on top of his twin before he hit the deck. As they crashed together onto the planks he drove down with both elbows and knees into Guy’s chest and belly.
Guy screamed like a girl and tried to double up to clutch his injured stomach, but Tom was sitting astride him, pinning him to the deck. He bunched his fist and took a full back swing to drive it into Guy’s face.
‘Tom, no!’
It was his father’s voice, and Tom froze. The wild anger faded slowly from his eyes. He lowered his fist and stood up. He looked down contemptuously at Guy. ‘Next time,’ he warned, ‘you won’t get off so lightly.’ He turned away. Behind him, Guy came to his feet, still clutching his stomach and braced himself against one of the cannon. The watchers drifted away, disappointed that the show had ended so tamely.
‘Tom!’ Guy called, and Tom looked back. ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said. ‘Let’s shake hands. Let’s be friends.’ He staggered towards his brother, looking contrite and abject, his right hand outstretched.
Immediately Tom grinned and strode back. He seized the proffered hand. ‘I don’t know why we ever fought,’ he said.
‘I do,’ Guy told him, and the pathetic expression on his face changed in an instant to one of blackest hatred. Quick as a viper he drew the dagger from the sheath on his belt. The blade was six inches of bright steel with a needle point. He held it at the level of Tom’s navel and thrust hard, at the same time using his grip on his right hand to jerk Tom towards him with all his strength, trying to pull him on to the dagger.
‘I hate you!’ he screamed at Tom, spittle spraying from his lips in the sunlight. ‘I’ll kill you for what you’ve done.’
Tom’s eyes flew wide with fright and he twisted violently aside. The point of the dagger scored his flank, slit open his shirt and ploughed a shallow furrow in the flesh beneath. Instantly the blood burst out, soaking the cotton and flooding down his leg.
Caroline screamed in a high ringing voice, ‘You’ve killed him!’ and a roar went up from the crew as they raced back to watch the sport.
Guy knew that he had bungled the stroke, and he thrust and slashed desperately at Tom’s face and chest. But Tom danced and dodged each thrust until, suddenly and unexpectedly, he leaped forward and slammed the heel of his left hand up under Guy’s chin. His twin’s head snapped back and he let go his death grip on Tom’s right hand.
Guy staggered back against the gunwale, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth where he had bitten through his tongue. He still held the dagger and pointed it at Tom’s face, snarling, ‘I’ll kill you!’ His teeth were stained with his own blood. ‘I’m going to kill you, you filthy swine.’
With one hand Tom massaged his injured throat, but with the other he drew his own dagger from its sheath. ‘You make a fine speech, brother,’ he said grimly. ‘Now let’s see you do the killing you boast of.’ He went after Guy, right foot leading, moving on his toes, the dagger weaving in his hand like an erect cobra, his eyes fastened on his brother’s face. Guy retreated before him.
Hal moved forward quickly, opened his mouth to shout at them to stop, but before he could utter a sound Aboli was beside him and gripped his upper arm. ‘No, Gundwane!’ His voice was low but urgent, lost to all but Hal in the screams of the women and the howls of the men. ‘Never try to separate fighting dogs. You will only give one the advantage.’
‘In God’s name, Aboli, these are my sons.’
‘They are no longer children, Gundwane. They are men. Treat them like men.’
Tom jumped forward, the point of his dagger held low, and feinted for Guy’s belly. Guy ran backwards, almost tripping over his own feet. Tom circled out to his right, and Guy backed away towards the bows. The men there scattered to give them space in which to fight, and Hal saw what Tom was doing: he was driving Guy as a sheepdog moves the flock, shepherding him into the bows.
Tom’s expression was cold and set, with no sign of emotion, but his eyes glowed as he watched his twin’s face. Hal had fought many men, and he knew that only the most dangerous swordsmen had that cold menace in their gaze when they closed in for the kill. He knew that Tom was no longer seeing a brother but an enemy to be destroyed. He had become a killer, and Hal was afraid as he had seldom been for himself. He was afraid for Guy, but he knew that Aboli was right. There was nothing he could do to stop this now. He could not call off Tom – it would be like trying to call off a hunting leopard.
Tom was still bleeding from the cut across his flank. The slash in his shirt flapped open to show the white skin beneath and the wound like a smiling mouth, from which the red tide oozed. It dripped onto the deck, and into his shoes so that they squelched with ea
ch step he took. But he was unconscious of the injury: all he saw was the man who had inflicted it.
Guy came up against the rail. With his left hand he groped behind him, testing the oak timbers. The realization that he was trapped dawned on him, and the wild anger faded from his eyes, replaced at once by fear. He glanced quickly about him, seeking an avenue of escape. Then his fingers touched the shaft of one of the pikes in the rack below the gunwale, and the fear dissolved like sea mist at the coming of the sun. A fierce joy lit his features as he dropped the dagger, and snatched the pike from the rack. In the face of the heavy spear with its barbed steel head, Tom dropped back a pace. Guy grinned at him, his mouth a bloody gash. ‘Now we shall see,’ he gloated, lowered the pike head and charged. Tom sprang back and Guy wheeled after him, thrusting with the long shaft, well out of the reach of the dagger in Tom’s right hand. He gathered himself and charged again. Tom dropped the dagger, hurled himself aside to escape the gleaming steel point, then leaped back before Guy could round on him and seized the oak shaft.
They wrestled back and forth along the deck, with the shaft between them, thrusting and pushing, grunting and bleeding, mouthing garbled oaths and insults at each other. Eventually Tom pushed Guy against the side of the ship until they were locked together, face to face and chest to chest, with the pike shaft between them.
Slowly Tom forced the shaft up until it was in line with his brother’s throat, then put all his weight and strength behind it. Guy’s back arched as he bent over the rail, the thick oak shaft under his chin. Fear was in his eyes again: he could hear the water gurgling along the ship’s side beneath him and his toes left the deck. He was going over, and he was no swimmer – water terrified him.
Tom’s feet were firmly planted, but in a puddle of his own blood, slippery as oil. His feet shot out from under him, and he went down heavily on the deck. Guy was free, and he staggered to the shrouds on the foremast, gasping for breath, sweat soaking his shirt. He caught at the shrouds for support, and looked back over his shoulder.
Tom rolled to his feet, and stooped to pick up his dagger, then went after Guy like a charging leopard.
‘Stop him!’ Guy screamed in terror. ‘Make him stop!’ But the clamour of the watchers was deafening, rising higher still with wild excitement as Tom ran in with the dagger in his hand and madness in his eyes.
Guy turned and, with the strength of panic, leaped into the shrouds and began to climb hand over hand. Below him Tom paused only long enough to clamp the dagger between his teeth, then followed him up.
The audience on deck stood with heads thrown back. None had ever seen Guy in the rigging before, and even Hal was amazed at how fast he moved. Tom could gain on him only gradually.
Guy reached the yard and scrambled onto it. He looked down and experienced a moment of giddy vertigo. Then he saw Tom’s face below him, coming closer as he raced up the rat-lines. He saw the merciless set of his mouth and the blood that splattered his face and soaked his shirt. Desperately he looked up the mast, but his spirit quailed at the height to the topmast and he knew that with every foot he climbed the advantage passed more firmly into Tom’s hands. There was only one way for him to go, and he crawled painfully out along the high yard. He could hear Tom coming after him, and the sound drove him on. He could not look down at the rushing green water so far below him. He was sobbing with terror, but still he crawled on until he had reached the end of the yard. He looked back over his shoulder.
Tom was a pace behind him. Guy was trapped and helpless. Tom checked and sat upright on the swinging yard. He took the blade from between his teeth – he was a ghastly sight, all splashed with blood, his face white and set with rage, and the shining weapon was in his hand.
‘Please, Tom,’ Guy wailed. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ He threw up both hands to shield his face, and lost his precarious balance on the yard. He teetered wildly, wind-milling his arms, then leaned further and further outwards until, with a wild shriek, he went over, twisting and turning in the air, dropping free until he hit the water in an untidy tangle of limbs and went deep under.
Tom sat rigid as the fog of killing rage cleared from his brain, and looked down in horror at what he had caused. Guy was gone, there was no sign of him below the green surface, no head bobbing in the ship’s long creaming wake.
He can’t swim! The dreadful reality struck Tom so hard that he reeled on his perch. I’ve done it. I’ve killed my own brother. The biblical horror of the deed flashed through him. He leaped to his feet, stood tall on the high yard, and peered back along the wake. Then he saw Guy come to the surface, his arms waving and his cries faint and plaintive as those of a wounded gull.
He heard his father’s orders to the helm bellowed from the deck below. ‘Heave her to! Launch a boat! Man overboard!’
Before the ship could even respond to her helm and turn her bows up into the wind, Tom gathered himself and sprang far out from the yard. Head first, arms stretched far out above his head, he arced over, his legs straight out behind him. He struck the surface of the ocean cleanly, and went so deep that the dark waters closed around him and crushed his chest. Then he turned and struck up for the surface. He burst out waist-high, the breath whistling in his throat. The ship was past him, already swinging her bows round and into the wind.
He looked back along the path of the wake and saw nothing, but still he struck out overarm, swimming with all his strength, churning the waters behind him, hardly feeling the sting of salt in the long shallow wound down his flank. He judged roughly how far back he had last seen Guy’s head, paused, and trod water, panting for breath, looking about him. There was no sign of his brother.
Oh, God, if he drowns I will never— He did not finish the thought but sucked in a mighty breath, doubled over until his head was pointed at the bottom of the sea, kicked his feet high in the air and slid smoothly below the surface. With eyes wide open he saw only the green, shot through with bars of sunlight, and swam downwards until his lungs craved air. He must turn back to breathe.
Then he saw something below him, a blur of white and blue, Guy’s shirt and jacket, turning end over end, lifeless as a piece of flotsam. With aching lungs Tom swam on down until he touched his brother’s shoulder. He seized the collar of his jacket and turned for the surface. Although he kicked out strongly, the drag of the limp body hampered him. The seconds stretched out into an infinity of pain. His chest burned and the need to breathe consumed him. He felt the strength going out of his legs. His hold on Guy’s collar slackened and he felt him slip away. The greenness filled his head and his vision faded, stars of light exploding silently in the darkness.
Be strong! he screamed soundlessly at himself, then forced his fingers to close tighter on Guy’s jacket, and willed his legs to keep kicking.
The light grew stronger, the green faded and suddenly his head burst out into the air and the sunlight. He drew a breath that filled his chest to the point of bursting, then another – honey-sweet, he felt it pervade his body and the strength flood back. He reached down, and grabbed a handful of Guy’s thick, sodden locks and pulled his head out into the air.
Guy was drowned. There was no life in him. His eyes were open, blind and staring. His face was waxen.
‘Breathe! For the love of God, breathe!’ Tom shouted, into his white, still face and he seized him with both arms around the chest and squeezed. Aboli had shown him this trick, and it worked. The dead, stale air gushed out of Guy, mingled with gouts of sea-water and vomit. It spewed into Tom’s face and he released his grip. Guy’s chest expanded reflexively, sucking in air through his gaping mouth. Twice more Tom squeezed the water out of him, fighting to hold his face clear of the surface.
With the third breath, Guy coughed and choked and he struggled to breathe of his own accord. His eyes blinked, still unseeing, then slowly focusing. He was breathing but with great difficulty, racked every few seconds with paroxysms of coughing, but slowly expression returned to his eyes.
‘I hate you,�
� he whispered into Tom’s face. ‘I still hate you. I will always hate you.’
‘Why, Guy, why?’
‘You should have let me drown, for one day I will kill you.’
‘Why?’ Tom repeated.
‘You know,’ Guy gasped. ‘You know why!’
Neither twin had heard the boat approaching, but Hal Courtney shouted to them now, from close at hand, ‘Hold hard, lads! I’m here.’
The crew of the longboat were pulling with a will and, at the tiller, Hal steered them in close. At his order they shipped their oars and strong hands reached down to seize both boys and drag them from the water.
Dr Reynolds was waiting at the rail as Guy was lifted aboard the Seraph. Tom stood next to his father on the deck, and watched, strangely forlorn, as the surgeon’s mates carried his brother below.
‘He hates me, Father,’ he whispered.
‘Let’s see to that cut, lad,’ Hal said gruffly.
Tom glanced down without interest at his wound. The sea-water had reduced the bleeding to a slow weep. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘A scratch.’ Then he looked up again at Hal. ‘He hates me. It was the first thing he said when I pulled him to the surface. What am I to do?’
‘Guy will get over it.’ Hal ripped open Tom’s shirt to get at the dagger cut. ‘He will forget and forgive.’
‘No, he will not.’ Tom shook his head. ‘He said he will always hate me. He is my brother. Help me, Father. What can I do?’
Hal could give him no answer. He knew all too well the younger twin’s obstinacy and tenacity: they were at once his strength and his weakness. He knew that Tom was right. Guy would never forgive him.
It was the most beautiful landfall in all the oceans Hal had ever sailed. The mountain was a towering wall against the sky, and the wind sweeping over the top frothed like boiling milk into a soft pulsating cloud, touched with shades of oyster shell and pink pearl, colours borrowed from the lowering sun. The slopes of the mountain below the rocky ramparts were green with forests, and the beaches were white, rimed with a frosting of surf.