Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  He lowered the sword blade from al-Auf’s throat, and turned away. He started towards the door, desperate to search every corner of the island, if merely to set his heart at rest.

  Al-Auf was so surprised that for a moment he stood rigid. Then he dropped his uninjured right hand to the hilt of the curved dagger in the gold filigree scabbard on his belt. The burnished blade made a small slippery sound as it slid from its sheath.

  Tom was not too far gone in misery to ignore that fatal whisper, and as he spun around to face him, al-Auf launched himself across the gap between them with the dagger raised above his head, to plunge it into Tom’s back.

  At that treachery, Tom’s despair turned to a consuming rage. He jumped forward to meet the attack and drove his sword-point into the centre of the Arab’s chest. He felt the steel glance off a rib, then slide through heart and lung and thrill in his grip as the point hit the spine.

  Al-Auf froze and the dagger dropped from his hand. It clattered loudly on the floor, and the hatred in his black eyes faded. Tom placed one booted foot against the man’s chest, and pushed him backwards as he pulled the red blade free.

  Al-Auf slumped to his knees and his head drooped forward, but Tom’s rage was not yet assuaged. He lifted the sabre high and swung it down again, using the full power of his shoulders, his arm and the snap of his wrist so that the blade hissed in the air as it descended. It fell across the back of al-Auf’s neck. The head toppled from the spouting stump, struck the floor with a meaty thump and rolled to Tom’s feet.

  Tom stared down into al-Auf’s face. The dark eyes were wide open and fierce. His lips opened and it seemed he tried to speak, but then his lids fluttered, the light went out of his eyes, which turned dull and opaque, and his jaw went slack.

  ‘It is done, and well done!’ said Aboli from the doorway. He stepped into the room and slipped off the Arabic gown he wore. He knelt and spread the garment on the floor, then lifted the severed head by a handful of its lank black hair.

  Tom watched him as he wrapped al-Auf’s head in the cloak. He felt little emotion and no remorse as the blood soaked through the folds of the cloth. Aboli stood up and slung the gruesome bundle over his shoulder. ‘We will take it to your father. Al-Auf’s head is worth a barony to him when he presents it to the governors of the Honourable Company in London.’

  With the naked sword in his hand, Tom followed Aboli like a sleep-walker down the passage and out into the sunlight. He felt no elation, only the crushing weight of the knowledge that he had lost Dorian for ever.

  Tom pushed his way through the excited seamen who rampaged through the passages and inner rooms of the fort. They were guffawing and shouting loud banter at each other as they ransacked the building. Every so often there was a shout and a scream as they found another Arab hiding in one of the cells and dragged him out into the courtyard.

  The prisoners were stripped naked. The seamen had learned how readily they could conceal a dagger under their voluminous robes. Even the women were treated in this way. The captured weapons were thrown in a pile in the centre of the courtyard, while the valuables, the purses of the men and the gold jewellery of the women, were thrown on a spread canvas sail.

  Then the prisoners were dragged away to join the ranks of naked brown bodies that already knelt along the north wall of the courtyard, guarded by grinning sailors with pistols cocked and cutlasses drawn.

  Tom strode across to the ranks of squatting Arabs and picked out one. Despite his nudity the man had noble features and an intelligent, dignified gaze.

  ‘What is your name, old father?’ Tom asked, making an effort to keep his address respectful.

  The old man looked startled to be spoken to in Arabic, but he responded to Tom’s gentle tone. ‘My name is Ben Abram.’

  ‘You have the look of a scholar or a holy man,’ Tom flattered him.

  Again the old man responded. ‘I am a physician.’

  ‘There was a boy here on the island. He would now be twelve, with red hair. He was captured by al-Auf. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know him.’ Ben Abram nodded, and Tom’s spirits soared.

  ‘He is my brother. Where is he now? Is he here on the island?’ he demanded eagerly, but Ben Abram shook his head.

  ‘He is gone. Al-Auf sold him into slavery.’

  At last Tom had to accept this corroboration of al-Auf’s boast. For a minute he thought that he would not be able to bear the pain of it. ‘Where did they send him? What is the name of the man who bought my brother as a slave?’

  Ben Abram shook his head again, but his eyes slid away from Tom’s face and his expression was guarded. ‘I do not know,’ he whispered.

  Tom knew he was lying and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He would force it out of the old man, but then he saw the strong, determined set of Ben Abram’s features and his intuition warned him that he would get nothing from him by force.

  To give himself time to think, he looked around the inner walls of the fort. Dead Arabs were scattered along the ramparts, with many wounded among them who groaned and writhed in the dirt. He called across to the coxswain who was in command of the guard. ‘This man is a surgeon. Give him back his clothes and let him tend to the enemy wounded.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Courtney.’ The man knuckled his forehead.

  Tom turned back to Ben Abram. ‘Many of your men need your care. You may go to them.’

  ‘May Allah reward your compassion.’ Ben Abram rose to his feet and pulled on the robe that the coxswain tossed to him. Tom watched the old man hurry away and kneel beside one of the badly wounded Arabs at the foot of the ramp.

  Now he must find his father and tell him the dread news he had learned of Dorian. Tom looked about him again, then started towards the gate. As he went he stopped every crewman from the Seraph he recognized. ‘Have you seen the captain? Where is he?’

  When none could answer, Tom felt concern well up in him. Then he saw Captain Anderson near the devastated gateway. Anderson was bright red in the face and roaring like a wounded bull, trying to get his rampaging troops organized into gangs to start retrieving the contents of the storerooms in which the pirate booty was stored. Already some sailors were staggering out of the fort under the weight of bales and barrels, to stack them beside the gate, ready to be carried down to the beach and loaded aboard the waiting ships.

  Tom pushed his way to Anderson’s side. Anderson swivelled to face him, and his expression softened in a way that puzzled Tom. ‘I have killed al-Auf.’ Tom raised his voice to make himself heard above the uproar. ‘Aboli has his head.’ Tom indicated the tall black man and the bloodstained bundle he carried slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Mother Mary!’ Anderson looked mightily impressed. ‘That’s good work. I was wondering where that rascal had vanished to. His head will be worth a lakh in London.’

  ‘There’s a room full of bullion chests at the head of the stairs behind that doorway at the end of the ramparts. The good Lord only knows how much gold al-Auf has squirrelled away there. Captain Anderson, I believe it best that you send a reliable officer to guard it before our lads begin helping themselves.’

  Anderson shouted for his coxswain, and gave the orders. With five hastily recruited men, the officer hurried away, and Tom could ask the question that had been burning his tongue. ‘Have you seen my father, Captain? I’ve been searching for him. He should be here to help you take command.’

  Anderson looked down at him and his eager expression melted with pity. ‘He is down, lad. I saw him struck by the blast of the powder explosion at the gates.’

  As his premonition of disaster was realized, Tom felt his heart clutched by the icy hand of dread. ‘Where is he, sir?’

  ‘The last I saw of him, he was in front of the gates.’ Anderson’s voice was gruff with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but from what I saw he is almost certainly killed.’

  Tom fled from him, even Dorian forgotten at that moment. He scrambled over the piles of rubble that blocked the gateway and
saw one shattered body lying out in the open ground. He ran and dropped to his knees beside it. It was so badly mangled, stripped of its clothing, the skin flayed away from the raw flesh, that Tom could not be sure whom he was looking at. Gently he turned the shattered head. ‘Danny,’ he said softly, and felt the tears start in his eyes. He had not known how much he had loved the big man until now. He blinked back the tears. Close up, death was uglier than his worst nightmares. Big Daniel’s eyes were open and staring, clustered with blue flies. Tom brushed them away and stroked the lids closed with the palm of his hand. He stood up again uncertainly, and found Aboli beside him. ‘Where is my father? Captain Anderson said he was here.’

  Tom could see no other body that might have been his father’s. There were thirty or forty dead Arabs lying along the edge of the forest, killed as they tried to escape. A few seamen were picking over the corpses, making certain they were not feigning death, a favourite Arab trick, and searching them for anything of value.

  ‘Your father is not here,’ Aboli said. ‘They must have taken him away.’

  Tom ran to the nearest seaman who was squatting beside a body. Tom did not recognize him – he must have been off the Yeoman of York. ‘Have you seen Sir Henry, the captain of the Seraph?’

  The man looked up at him. ‘Aye, lad. The old man was sore wounded. I saw the sawbones take him off down to the bay.’ He gestured with his cupped hands full of gold jewellery.

  Over the tops of the trees the masts of the squadron showed. As soon as the flags had been hoisted on the ramparts to announce the capture of the fort, all three ships had come into the bay. Tom took the pathway through the trees and ran down through the soft white coral sand. He came out on the beach, with Aboli only a pace behind him, and looked across at the tall ships lying at anchor in the clear, tranquil waters of the lagoon.

  The small boats were already busy ferrying between the vessels and the beach, bringing ashore those men who had been freed from their shipboard duties. Tom saw a longboat coming from the Seraph, and hailed it as soon as its keel hit the sand.

  ‘Where is the captain?’

  ‘He is on board already, Master Tom,’ the boatswain shouted back.

  ‘I must go to him. Take me out to the ship.’

  ‘Right you are, Master Tom. Jump aboard.’

  When the longboat bumped against the Seraph’s hull, Tom was the first man up the ladder, with Aboli still close behind him. There was only a handful of the ship’s depleted crew on deck, and they were lining the rail, wistfully watching the commotion ashore, eager to join the fighting and looting.

  ‘Where is the captain?’ Tom demanded.

  ‘They took him to his quarters.’

  Tom flew down the deck and when he reached the door to the stern cabin he came up short as a terrible groan echoed along the quiet deck. He paused with his right hand outstretched, unable to summon the courage to open the door and discover what horrors awaited him on the far side. Aboli reached past him and quietly pushed it open. Tom stared into his father’s cabin.

  They had rigged a wooden grating under the stern windows where the light was strongest. His father was laid on his back upon the grating. Dr Reynolds stood over him. He wore his black frock coat, his formal operating attire. The thick serge cloth was greenish with age and stiff with old dried blood. Reynolds was already perspiring freely in the hot little cabin. He looked up at Tom and nodded. ‘Good! Come in, lad. Don’t just stand there gawking! I need another pair of strong hands,’ he said grimly, and began to roll his sleeves above the elbows.

  Tom advanced on leaden feet until he stood beside the grating and looked down at his father’s torn body. The fiery stench of raw spirit filled the heated cabin. One of the two surgeon’s mates was forcing the neck of a three-quarters empty bottle of rum into Hal Courtney’s mouth. The spirit was running down his cheeks and into his hair. Hal was gagging and even in his semi-conscious condition trying to turn away his head.

  Tom snatched the bottle from the man’s hand. ‘Slowly, curse you for a clumsy oaf! You will drown him.’

  ‘He needs the rum to get him through the pain,’ the surgeon’s mate protested.

  Tom ignored him, and lifted his father’s head as gently as if he were an infant. He gave him the bottle with care, allowing only a sip at a time to trickle between his lips, then waiting for him to swallow.

  He looked down at the injured legs. Reynolds had buckled leather straps around each one, halfway up the thighs, and twisted these tourniquets to stem the bleeding, but the wounds were still weeping. They had placed a bucket beneath the grating to catch the blood, and the steady drip-drip sounded to Tom like a water clock counting out the seconds of his father’s life.

  Reynolds finished his preparations, and selected an ivory-handled scalpel from the canvas surgeon’s roll that lay on the grating beside the maimed legs. He began to cut away the ragged blood-soaked legs of Hal’s breeches. Tom blanched and felt his senses swim as the carnage beneath the cloth was revealed.

  The blast had jellified the flesh, bruised it to the colour of minced liver. Sand and coral chips had been driven into it as though fired from a musket, and splinters of bone stood out of the bloody meat like flint arrowheads.

  Reynolds palpated the legs. They were soft and boneless in his hands. He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘They have to come off. Both of them. I cannot save them.’

  ‘No!’ Tom gasped. ‘You cannot take his legs! He will never again ride a horse or command a ship. You must not do it!’

  ‘Then he will die. His legs will rot, and he will be dead of the gangrene in a week, or less if he is lucky.’ He nodded at his two mates. ‘Hold him!’

  Aboli stepped forward, and Reynolds said, ‘Yes, you too. We need strong arms here.’ He selected a scalpel, which looked to Tom more like a butcher’s knife than a surgical instrument, and tested the edge on his own thumb. Tom saw the specks of rust on the blade where old blood had not been properly scrubbed away. ‘Master Tom, you will hold his head.’ Reynolds handed him a wooden wedge. ‘Keep that between his teeth. He must have something to bite on when the pain hits him, or his teeth will crack.’

  He dipped a sponge into the bowl of hot water that his mate held, and swabbed away some of the blood and dirt from Hal’s left leg so that he could see where to make the first cut. Then he gave another twist to the strap of the tourniquet and ran the edge of the blade across the tightly drawn skin. The flesh parted and Tom, who was holding the wooden wedge between his father’s jaws, felt his body convulse and his back arch, every muscle and sinew drawn tight as though by a capstan.

  A terrible cry issued from Hal’s throat, and then he clamped down on the wedge, locking his jaws so that the wood was crushed between his teeth. Tom tried to hold his head as it thrashed from side to side, but his father had the strength of a madman.

  ‘Hold him!’ Reynolds grunted, as he cut down, and Aboli and the men holding Hal were thrown about by the strength of his convulsions. Tom heard the steel of the blade strike the femur deep in his father’s thigh. Quickly Reynolds laid the knife aside and took up the hank of black catgut. He tied off the open ends of the blood vessels, which were running freely despite the tourniquet. The blood cascaded into the bucket beneath the grating. Tom could not believe that there was so much of it.

  Reynolds picked a saw out of the canvas roll, and inspected the fine teeth. Then he seized the shattered leg in his left hand and, like a carpenter dividing a plank, he placed the blade in the deep scalpel wound and made the first stroke.

  The steel teeth grated shrilly against the bone, and despite the weight of four men trying to hold him down Hal doubled in the middle and came up into a sitting position. His head was thrown back and ropes of muscle and ligaments stood proud in his throat and shoulders. Another tortured scream tore out of his gaping mouth and rang through the ship. Then his body went slack and he fell back limply on the grating. ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ Reynolds whispered. ‘We must work swiftly now, befor
e he comes around again.’

  With three more long strokes, the bone parted. The leg sagged and the surgeon laid aside the saw, and picked up the knife again. ‘I will leave him a good thick pad on the stump, so that the end of the bone is well covered.’ He shaped the flesh with a few rapid slices, and Tom gagged as the shattered leg came free and flopped on the grating. One of the surgeon’s mates picked it up and dropped it on the deck. It lay there like a fresh-caught cod thrown on the floorboards of a fishing skiff, twitching softly as the nerve ends died.

  Reynolds threaded a length of catgut through the eye of a sail-maker’s needle, then folded the flap of flesh over the exposed bone that protruded from the stump. He hummed in his throat as he probed the point of the needle through the tough skin and began to lay his neat little stitches along the seam. The loose ends of the sutures with which he had tied off the blood vessels dangled out of the closed wound.

  Within minutes Reynolds stood back and held his head to one side, like a seamstress judging a piece of embroidery. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice, even if I say it myself.’ He made a little clucking sound of self-approval. To Tom the stump looked like the head of a new-born baby, round and bald and bloody.

  ‘Now, let’s have a look at his other pin.’ Reynolds nodded at his mate. The man seized Hal’s remaining ankle in his big hairy hands and pulled the mangled leg straight. The agony roused Hal from the dark fogs of unconsciousness. He uttered another shuddering groan, and struggled weakly, but they held him down.

  Reynolds examined the leg, starting high on the thigh, just below the tourniquet, then working down over the knee, probing his powerful stubby fingers deep into the flesh to feel for broken bone.

  ‘Good!’ he encouraged himself. ‘Excellent! I think I can risk cutting much lower here. I will save the knee. That’s important. We will be able to articulate a wooden leg. He may even learn to walk again.’