Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘At last you have seen what was clear all along,’ Aboli applauded wryly. Tom settled back against the thwart. Now that the decision was made he could rest easier. He dozed intermittently, but the pain kept waking him.

  An hour before midnight he was roused by the change in the stroke of the oars, and he looked up to see the outline of the Swallow’s sleek and lovely hull appearing out of the mist just ahead. There was a riding light at her masthead, and the dark figure of the anchor watch rose from behind her gunwale and challenged them sharply. ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Swallow!’ Tom shouted the traditional reply when the ship’s captain was returning, and there was an immediate stir and bustle aboard the sloop. As soon as they came alongside many hands were ready to lift Tom on board.

  ‘We must send for a surgeon,’ Ned Tyler said, as soon as he saw the blood, and learned the cause and extent of Tom’s injury.

  ‘No! The watch is after us,’ Tom stopped him. ‘We must sail within the hour. The tide has turned already. We must run downriver on the ebb.’

  ‘The work below decks is not complete,’ Ned warned him.

  ‘I know that,’ Tom answered. ‘We will find a safe port on the south coast to finish it. We cannot use Plymouth – it is too close to home. That is the first place they will look for us. Dr Reynolds lives at Cowes on the Isle of Wight. It is off the mainland. The bailiffs will not immediately look for us there. We can send word to the men we need to join us, and finish fitting out before we sail for Good Hope.’

  He struggled to his feet. ‘Where is Luke Jervis?’

  ‘Ashore with his wife and brats,’ Ned replied.

  ‘Send for him.’

  Luke came, still muzzy with sleep. Swiftly Tom explained what had happened, how he had lost the cargo to Childs, and the desperate need to fly downriver at once. ‘I know that I owe you the share of the Swallow and her cargo, as I promised, but I cannot pay you now. I will give you my note on the debt. I may never be able to return to England, but I will send the monies to you when I have them.’

  ‘No!’ Luke had woken up fully during Tom’s rapid recounting of the facts. ‘I will not trust you for such a large sum.’ His voice was harsh. Tom stared at him, at a loss for words, but Luke’s face split suddenly into a wolfish grin. ‘I must come along with you to protect my debt.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Tom said roughly. ‘I am going to Africa.’

  ‘I have always wanted to taste one of them cokey-nuts,’ Luke said. ‘It will take me a minute to fetch my ditty-bag, Captain. Don’t slip your moorings before I return.’

  Tom refused to go below to the half-finished cabin so Aboli placed a mattress on the open deck for him, with a tarpaulin rigged over it to keep off the mist. Within ten minutes Ned had come to him. ‘All shipshape and ready for sea, Captain,’ he reported.

  ‘Where is Luke Jervis?’ Tom demanded.

  ‘He should be back at any minute—’ Ned started, but broke off as a scream tore through the night, the cry of a woman in terrible distress. They started in alarm and reached for their weapons, just as two dark figures came running down the wooden jetty towards the Swallow.

  ‘’Tis only Luke,’ Alf Wilson said, with relief, ‘and his missus after him. We best get under way. She could make us all suffer.’

  ‘Cast off!’ Luke yelled, when he was only halfway down the jetty. ‘The she-devil is after me.’

  They threw off the lines and ran to the halyards. The Swallow drew away from the jetty. Luke raced the last few yards with his wife gaining on him, screeching with rage and swinging at him with a long staff. Luke leaped across the space between dock and ship.

  ‘Luke Jervis, come back! You will not leave me here with the brood of bastards you got out of my belly, and no food or coin to feed or clothe us. You will not go running off to Afriky to rut on them black savage whores.’

  ‘Farewell, my bonny dove.’ Jervis scrambled to his feet, bold now that twenty feet of water separated them. He blew her a kiss. ‘I will see you again in three years, or maybe four, or perhaps more.’

  ‘What will become of me and my innocent babes?’ she whined, as her mood changed. ‘Have you not a morsel of pity?’ She burst out into pitiful wails.

  ‘Sell the Raven,’ Luke shouted back. ‘She’ll fetch enough to keep you and your litter for twenty years.’

  ‘I’ll not wait for you to come back, Luke Jervis.’ Her tone changed again. ‘There’s many a good man will be pleased to take your place in my bed.’

  ‘Brave men all of them.’ Luke waved his cap over his head. ‘They deserve you more than I do, my little geranium.’

  They lay up in the River Medina half a mile upwater from Cowes. Tom had ordered Ned to have the sloop’s French name painted over, but they did not replace it with her new name. She did not stand out among the other small craft in the anchorage. All the crew were enjoined to silence and warned not to speak to anyone ashore about her origins, her business or final destination.

  Dr Reynolds came out to the ship immediately he received Tom’s message. He cut for the ball with Tom lying on a grating in his tiny new cabin. Aboli held his arms and Alf Wilson his legs. Reynolds found the soft lead ball on the first incision, and popped it out of the swollen, inflamed flesh like the stone of a prune. There was a bright smear on the metal where it had struck Tom’s rib.

  Then while Tom writhed and sweated on the grating he probed the channel the ball had cut along his ribcage. ‘There they are! All the wadding and the piece of your shirt it carried in with it.’ Proudly the surgeon displayed these reeking trophies, holding them up in the forceps to show Tom, who lay in a sweat of agony champing on the wooden wedge between his teeth.

  ‘I think it will heal cleanly now.’ Reynolds sniffed the pus and detritus from the wound. ‘Sweet as a good Devon cider. The corruption has not yet taken a strong hold in your blood. However, I will leave a quill in the wound to help it drain thoroughly. I will return in three days to remove it.’

  When Reynolds removed the quill, he proclaimed the operation to have been a masterpiece of the surgeon’s art. Then he drank a quart jug of the rough cider Tom offered him. Under its subtle influence he agreed, without protest or demur, to accept the post of ship’s surgeon that Tom pressed upon him. ‘This last year I have near died of boredom. Never a decent musket-ball wound nor sword cut to lighten my days. Nothing but running noses and trickling bums,’ he confided over the second jug of cider, as they sat on the open deck beside the main mast. ‘I have thought often of those balmy days on the Fever Coast.’

  There was a burst of heavy hammering from below, and minutes later the master carpenter stuck his head out of the hatch. ‘The work’s all done, Captain. You’re ready to sail whenever you’ve a mind.’

  Tom had hired a gang of three local carpenters to help complete the refitting of the Swallow. They had worked in shifts, all day and by lantern-light late into the night to meet Tom’s demands. He paid them off for the excellent work they had done, and bade them farewell.

  In the meantime he had sent Alf Wilson and Ned Tyler by ferry across the Solent to find the best of the men they had already contracted to the voyage. They were scattered down the coast in the ports and fishing villages between Plymouth and Portsmouth, waiting for Tom to summon them.

  Tom and Master Walsh went with them as far as Southampton. They visited the chandlers and merchants to purchase the stores and trade goods they needed to complete fitting out the Swallow and provision her for an extended trading voyage. From the last voyage with his father, Tom knew what goods were most in demand among the black African tribes.

  He ordered and paid for almost two tons of Merikani cotton cloth, two thousand axe-heads, five tons of copper wire, five hundred hand mirrors, a ton of Venetian glass beads, twenty pounds of needles, a hundred cheap muskets with powder flasks and shot bags, and a ton of assorted trinkets and gewgaws. Most of these goods were safely delivered across the Solent and stored on board within the week.

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bsp; Tom left Master Walsh in Southampton to see to the purchase of the last of the trade goods, and went back to the ship. He fretted throughout the last few days as his crew began to come in across the Solent in singles and small groups, carrying their bags slung over their shoulders. He greeted each by name as they came aboard and had them place their marks on the watch-bill. They were the best of all those who had sailed on the Seraph and the other ships of the squadron. Tom was delighted and relieved to have them on board. He paid each his silver shilling of joining money and sent them below to claim the pegs on which to hang their hammocks.

  Master Walsh arrived back from their buying expedition aboard the barge he had hired to bring the last consignment of trade goods and ship’s stores down Southampton Water and across the Solent to where the Swallow was anchored in the Medina. When these goods were loaded, the Swallow’s holds were filled and she lay low in the water. However, Ned Tyler and Alf Wilson had not yet returned, and they were forced to wait for them. There was not an hour that passed when Tom did not look to the shore and worry about the threat of the bailiffs that hung over him.

  He was certain that the officers of the law were already scouring all the ports along the south coast. He guessed they had started at Plymouth and were spreading out from there, searching for the sloop. It was only a matter of time before they reached the Isle of Wight and began to make the enquiries that would lead them to where the Swallow lay.

  There was another worry. The autumn was far advanced and soon winter would cast her stormy net across the seaways to the south, and lock them in. However, these days of grace gave his wound time to heal. By now he was vigorous and strong again, eager to be on his way.

  At night in his tiny cabin he was haunted by the murder of his brother, and he brooded on his guilt. In his Bible, with its worn leather cover, he read and reread the story of Cain and Abel, and found little there to comfort him. Then, at the end of two weeks, Alf Wilson and Ned Tyler returned. The two were surprised by the warmth and enthusiasm of his welcome. ‘Jeremy Compton has changed his mind, and we could not find Will Barnes or John Birdham.’ Ned was apologetic.

  ‘No harm done, Ned,’ Tom assured him expansively, and they went over the watch-bill together, assigning each man to his station. Ned was the first mate. Alf, Luke and Aboli the other officers, with a crew of twenty-seven tried and tested old salts to make up the full complement.

  ‘There is only one more load of trade goods to arrive, two hundredweight of red and green Venetian glass beads,’ Tom told his officers. ‘With luck they will come in tomorrow. We’ll sail with the next tide after they are stowed.’

  They settled in for what was to be their last night before sailing. As the sun set behind a thick mattress of grey cloud, a deputation led by Luke Jervis came to Tom where he sat brooding in the bows, staring across the water at the lamplights in the village, taking his leave of England for ever, saddened by the looming exile into which he was condemned for the rest of his life, and yet elated at the prospect of being able at last to begin the search for Dorian and his return to that mysterious, beckoning land so far to the south.

  ‘There is some of the lads that would take a last pot of ale in the tavern and kiss a pretty Christian girl once more before we sail on the morrow. Will you give them permission to go ashore for an hour, Captain?’ Luke asked respectfully.

  Tom thought about it for a minute. It was not wise to allow men ashore, for when they had liquor in them even the best seamen were wild and untrustworthy.

  ‘They will not taste a good English ale these next three years.’ Luke prodded him delicately.

  He was right, Tom thought, it would be hard on them if he refused. He could see the lighted windows of the tavern across the water. They would be almost within hail. There could be little harm in it. ‘Will you go with them, Mr Jervis, and see to it that it is an hour and no more?’

  ‘Why do you not come across with us your good self, Captain? They will mind their manners and come away prompt and sober if they are under your eye.’

  ‘It will be better than sitting here worrying about things that might never happen, Klebe,’ Aboli said softly, from where he sat beside the mast. ‘The lads will take it well, to have you buy them a jug and drink with them to the success of our voyage.’

  Tom left Ned in command of the sloop, and with him a few who would rather be in their hammock than in their cups. The rest rowed ashore in one of the longboats.

  The taproom of the tavern was noisy and crowded with lobstermen and fishermen, and the crews off the Royal Navy’s men-o’-war. The air was thick and blue with tobacco smoke. Tom ordered jugs of ale for his lads, and he and Aboli retired to a corner where they could watch the room and the door. Jim Smiley and one or two of the others started a boisterous conversation with a trio of women in the far corner, and within minutes they slipped away in couples. Although it had started raining lightly, they disappeared into the night.

  ‘They will not be far off,’ Aboli quieted Tom’s misgivings. ‘I told them to stay within call.’

  Tom had not lowered the contents of his jug an inch from the rim when two strange men came in through the front door and stood on the threshold, beating the raindrops off their cocked hats and the shoulders of their cloaks.

  ‘I do not like the looks of these,’ said Tom uneasily, and set aside his jug. They were both big, brawny fellows, with grim, stolid faces. ‘They have not come here to revel and carouse.’

  ‘Stay here,’ Aboli said, and rose to his feet. ‘I will find out more about their business.’

  He made his way casually through the crowd of drinkers, and followed the pair as they pushed through the crowd to where the goodwife and two wenches were filling ale jugs from the spigot of a twenty-gallon keg. ‘Good morrow, mistress,’ the elder of the strange pair greeted the wife. ‘I would like a word.’

  ‘Words are cheap.’ She looked up and brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Let’s see your ha’pence for a pot and you can talk as much as you like.’ The man slapped a coin on the table, and Aboli drifted closer so that he could listen to every word, while remaining unobtrusive.

  ‘I am looking for a ship,’ said the big man.

  ‘Then you have come to the right place. There are ships aplenty hereabouts. Yonder is Spithead and the whole bloody navy. Take your pick.’

  ‘The ship I seek is a little sloop.’ The man grinned at her ingratiatingly, but his eyes were cold and hard. ‘A pretty little ship with the name of the Hirondelle.’ His pronunciation of the French name was murderous. ‘Or perhaps the Swallow.’

  Aboli did not wait for the goodwife’s reply but turned away and strode towards where most of the crew of the sloop were standing in a group, laughing and swigging from their pots.

  Tom was watching him across the smoky room and Aboli jerked his head in an unmistakable summons. Tom came to his feet and went among the crowd, but not so obviously as to draw attention, singling out his men, tapping each on the shoulder, and giving them a quiet word. Aboli was doing the same, and shepherding the seamen out into the drizzling rain.

  ‘What is it?’ Luke demanded.

  ‘Bailiffs are drawing our covert,’ Aboli told him. ‘Where are John Smiley and his mates?’

  ‘Unloading their cargo into some pretty little pink port, like as not,’ Luke said.

  ‘Whistle them up,’ Tom ordered. ‘We will not wait on the tide.’

  Luke lifted the whalebone whistle that hung from a lanyard around his neck and blew two sharp blasts. Almost immediately John Smiley came running out of the shadows at the rear of the tavern. The others stumbled after him, hauling up their breeches and smoothing down their petticoats.

  ‘Back to the boat, lads,’ Tom told them, ‘or get left behind.’

  It was less than a hundred paces to the jetty where the longboat was tied up, but they had covered only half that distance when a stentorian bellow followed them.

  ‘Thomas Courtney! Stand, in the name of the law.’ Tom glanced over
his shoulder and saw the two big men burst out through the tavern doorway and come pelting after them.

  ‘I have a warrant signed by the Chief Justice of England! You are charged with the bloody murder of Lord Courtney.’

  The challenge spurred Tom on. ‘Run for it, lads!’

  They reached the head of the stone steps well ahead of the bailiffs, but there they ran into a bottleneck on the narrow stairway, and the two big men gained on them rapidly. Each had drawn a sword from under his cloak, and their heavy boots pounded over the cobbles. ‘Stop! In the name of the law!’

  ‘I will hold them off!’ Aboli rumbled, and turned to face them. ‘Go into the boat!’ Instead, Tom turned with him and they stood at the head of the stairs, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘Your wound. You cannot wield a sword yet. Will you never listen to me?’ Aboli demanded.

  ‘Only when you make sense!’ Tom changed the Neptune sword into his left hand as the pain of his unhealed wound stabbed him in the side.

  ‘I will kill you, if you force me to it,’ he shouted at the approaching pair, in such a tone as to bring them up short.

  They hesitated just out of sword-play. ‘We are officers of the law. Touch one of us at your peril.’ They were disconcerted by the odd pair who confronted them, the fresh-faced youth with the bent nose and the scarified black giant.

  ‘And I am a murderer with bloody hands. One more death means little to me.’ Tom laughed ghoulishly, ‘This savage here eats men raw. He likes their heads best. He sucks the flesh off the bones.’

  Aboli whipped the hat off his great bald head and scowled at them, contorting his tattooed face into a grotesque mask. The bailiffs stepped back involuntarily. Behind his back Tom heard the last of his men tumble into the longboat, and the oars creaking in the rowlocks.

  ‘Come on board, Captain,’ Luke Jervis yelled.

  ‘Shove off!’ Tom yelled at Luke, and leaped forward to meet the two bailiffs. ‘On guard! Defend yourselves!’

  He thrust at the man in front of him, driving him back, flashing the blade inches from his eyes, snagging and splitting the fabric of his coat with the point, but always careful not to wound him.