by Wilbur Smith
The bailiffs had only to touch blades to realize that they were outclassed, and they retreated before the combined attack. Luke Jervis shouted again.
Tom glanced swiftly over his shoulder: the longboat hovered just off the wharf with the rowers resting on their oars. ‘Time to go,’ he said to Aboli in Arabic, and made two more rapid lunges at the bailiffs’ faces that sent them stumbling backwards in panic. Then he and Aboli whirled and ran to the edge of the wharf. They leaped together far out and dropped into the water with their cloaks ballooning behind them.
As soon as they surfaced the longboat shot in to pick them up. Tom held the Neptune sword in his right hand and side-paddled with the other arm to meet the boat. The crew lifted him and Aboli out of the water and turned immediately, pulling mightily for where the Swallow lay. Once they were all safely aboard it took only minutes to recover the longboat and rope it down on the foredeck, while the other watch were on the windlass hoisting the anchor from the muddy bottom.
The bailiffs must have commandeered their skiff. They were halfway across from the wharf when the Swallow hoisted her mainsail and heeled to the night wind. As they bore away down the narrow inlet towards the open water of the Solent they passed the small boat close. One of the bailiffs stood up in the stern and pointed his drawn sword at Tom as he stood beside the Swallow’s helm. ‘You can never escape,’ he shouted across the gap between the two craft. ‘You have blood on your hands, and we will smell you out, no matter where you go on the face of this earth.’ Tom made no reply, but looked dead ahead. They left the small boat bobbing in their wake.
The wind treated them like a lover. It came from the north, the harbinger of winter, cold and swift, but not so strong as to force them to put a reef in the main. Within a week they had cleared Ushant. Then the north wind whisked them across Biscay, that notorious breeder of gales and turbulent seas, and south past the Canaries and on into the doldrums.
Here they expected it to falter, become fluky and erratic, but it blew sweet and constant. One day, after the noon sun-shot, Tom marked their position on the line of the equator and a thousand nautical miles west of the massive bulge of the African continent.
‘New course is south by east, Mr Tyler. Full and by.’ He marked it on the traverse board.
Ned Tyler touched his forehead. ‘Full and by it is, Captain.’
Tom looked up at the Swallow’s mainsail: it was swollen tight and white as an eight-month pregnant belly. Then he looked over the stern: the wake was slick and straight across the wind-ruffled Atlantic swells. ‘With this wind we will raise the Cape in less than sixty days, and thirty days later we will drop our hook in Zanzibar Roads.’ He had left all his doubts and misgivings far under the northern horizon, and now he felt strong and invulnerable.
Abd Muhammad al-Malik’s dhow was in disarray. The fallen boom that had almost killed the Prince had left the ship drifting helplessly, bows to the wind, her decks smothered under the heavy woven matting sail, and her rigging in a shambles. Blocks were swinging and banging against the mast and hull in the strong gusts of the monsoon, and her rigging was whipping and snapping, threatening to flog itself and the ship into further ruin.
The first thing that had to be done to bring order out of this destruction was to capture the end of the main halyard. This heavy rope was flying from the top of the mast. Rove through the eye of the main block at the masthead, it could not be pulled back from the deck. This would merely compound the problem of hoisting the great lateen sail and getting the ship sailing again. Someone would have to climb the mast.
Unlike a square-rigged ship, no shrouds secured it and there was no other easy form of access to the masthead. With her mainsail down, the dhow was rolling wildly in the heavy swells. The captain was trying to keep her bows into the sea with the tiller as she made sternway, but every now and then a heavier sea would catch her broadside, and roll her almost clean over. The mast was like a gigantic pendulum as it whipped from side to side, aggravating these violent movements. The ship was in dire danger.
The captain could not leave the tiller, but he screeched orders at his men as they huddled as far from him as the deck would allow, all trying to avoid his eye. They knew full well what needed to be done but not one was willing to attempt the climb to the masthead.
Dorian watched all this pandemonium with excited fascination. There had never been anything so entertaining on the deck of the Seraph, not all this screaming and gesticulation.
‘Ahmed, son of the great sow!’ Fouad, the captain, singled out another victim and pointed with a shaking finger to the top of the mast. ‘I will wrap your corpse in a pig skin before I throw you overboard if you do not obey me.’ The man turned away his head and stared out to sea, as if he had been smitten deaf.
Dorian measured the climb with an experienced eye, and wondered what they were all so afraid of. He had danced a hornpipe with Tom on the main yard of the Seraph, one hand on his hip, the other touching the top of his head, while the ship ran with the Cape rollers under her stern and the south-easter blew half a gale. This mast was only a third the height of the Seraph’s main.
He could almost hear Tom’s voice mocking him: ‘Come on, Dorry. Show them what you can do. I’ll give you guts!’
No one was looking at him – they had all forgotten him in the desperate exigency of the moment. Even the Prince had forsaken his customary aplomb and was clinging to one of the stays on the foredeck, staring up at the swaying masthead.
Dorian slipped off the long robe and threw it down on the deck. The skirts would tangle his legs. Naked as a newborn he ran to the foot of the mast and shot up it like a monkey pursued by a leopard. The Prince recovered his poise and shouted, ‘Stop that child! He will kill himself.’
Dorian was well out of reach of the frantic hands trying to carry out the royal command. His agility and head for heights had been developed and refined in the rigging of the Seraph and, by those standards, it was an easy climb. He used the roll of the hull and the swing of the mast to propel himself upwards, gripping alternately with knees and hands. He reached the top of the mast and glanced down. He saw their terrified faces turned up towards him, and could not resist the temptation to show off a little more. He wrapped both legs around the main stay and let go with one hand. He placed his thumb on the tip of his nose and wiggled his fingers down at the deck in a derisive gesture. Even though the crew had never seen this gesture before, the meaning was unmistakable. Dorian’s naked body gleamed white as an oyster-shell in the sunlight and his bare bottom was round and pink. He waggled it at them to emphasize the insult.
A moan of dread and horror went up from the watchers below as he climbed higher. They knew that the Prince’s wrath would be dreadful if any harm came to the boy, and that it would fall squarely upon their heads. They moaned again as Dorian reached out and gripped the flapping halyard.
‘Belay the end!’ he shouted down at the deck, using maritime English, but his order was clear to the captain who, having divined his meaning, then translated it into Arabic. Three men ran to grab the standing end of the heavy line.
As soon as they had it ready to break his fall, Dorian took two turns of the unravelled, worn tail end around his waist and then ran it back between his legs.
‘Break my fall!’ he yelled again. He waited for the right moment in the swing of the mast, then released his grip and kicked himself clear. The halyard squealed through the block as he dropped.
The men on the standing end of the line let it run through their leathery palms, braking his fall as Dorian came down. He was swooping far out over the water at each travel of the dhow’s roll, and he whooped with the exhilaration of each swing through the air.
The men on the other end of the halyard judged his descent with sailors’ skill, and allowed him to drop down the last few fathoms of the rope so lightly that his bare feet made no sound as they touched the deck. There was a rush to ensure he was safe and to secure the tail end of the halyard, which was wrapped aroun
d his waist.
As soon as a fresh rope was rove through the block at the masthead and the boom was hoisted once more, the dhow came on the wind, transformed by the press of the lateen sail from a helpless rolling hulk into a thing of the sea, agile and swift.
The Prince placed one hand on Dorian’s shoulder and looked around the faces of his retinue. ‘By his quickness of thought and action, this child has saved my life, and that of the ship,’ he announced. ‘Is there one of you who still doubts that this is the red-crowned orphan of the prophecy?’ He laid his hand on Dorian’s shining curls and looked each of his courtiers in the eyes. Not one could hold his gaze.
It was the mullah who spoke out first. ‘It is the miracle of St Taimtaim,’ he cried. ‘I declare the Holy Word. This is the child of the prophecy!’
‘It is the prophesy!’ they chorused. ‘Praise God’s name!’
With his hand still on Dorian’s head, the Prince said clearly, ‘Let all men know that I take this child as my adopted son. Henceforth he shall be known as al-Ahmara ibn al-Malik, the Red One, son of al-Malik.’
The mullah smiled slyly at his master’s cunning. By making the child his own son, he had neatly validated the prophecy of the saint. But other conditions had to be fulfilled, before the Prince could reap the rewards the old saint had promised. No doubt, in due season, these also could be met. ‘It is the will of God!’ cried the mullah.
The others intoned in chorus, ‘God is great!’
Even without the Prince’s commendation, over the weeks they spent at sea Dorian had earned himself a place in the affections of every member of the crew. It was clear to all of them that the boy was a bird of good omen, and each one secretly hoped that some of the promise of the prophecy might rub off on him. As Dorian moved about the deck even the most hardened, villainous sailors smiled and bantered with him, or touched his red head for luck.
The ship’s cook made special sweetmeats and sugared delights for him, while the rest of the crew vied with each other for his attention, and pressed small gifts on him. One even took the charm he wore on a thong around his neck and placed it over Dorian’s head. ‘May this shield you,’ he said, and made the sign against the evil eye.
‘Little monkey with the heart of a lion,’ Fouad, the captain, named him fondly and after evening prayers called Dorian to sit with him at the helm. He pointed out the navigational stars as they rose out of the sea, recited the names of the constellations and told Dorian the legends behind each one.
These Arabs were men of the deserts and the ocean. They lived their entire lives under the panoply of heaven, and the stars were always overhead. They had studied them over the centuries, and now the captain was sharing some of this knowledge with Dorian. It was a rare gift he was offering the child.
Dorian listened in fascination, his upturned face shining in the light of the heavens. Then in his turn he gave the captain the English names of the heavenly bodies, which he had learned from Aboli and Big Daniel.
The other crewmen gathered round them and listened to the fables of the Seven Sisters, of Orion the hunter and of the scorpion, as Dorian related them in his sweet high voice. They loved the stars and they loved a good story.
Now that he had a free run of the ship there was so much to occupy him that Dorian had little time to feel lonely or sorry for himself. He would spend half the morning hanging over the dhow’s side, watching a pod of long-nosed dolphins frolicking in the bow-wave, their wide tails pumping and their knowing eyes looking up at him as they dodged back and forth under the bows. Suddenly one of the creatures would spring from the dazzling blue water as high as where Dorian stood and grin at him with its wide mouth. Dorian waved at it, and burst into delighted peals of laughter. The Arab seamen closest to him would pause in their labours and smile in sympathy.
Whenever he became too involved in conversation with them, though, Fouad would call to him possessively, ‘Come here, little monkey with the lion heart, steer the ship for me.’ Dorian would take the tiller and his eyes sparkled as he held the running dhow on the wind, felt her tremble under his hands like a thoroughbred horse gathering itself for a jump.
Sometimes the Prince, sitting cross-legged on the silk carpet under his sun tent, would break off a discussion with his courtiers and watch the boy with a little smile on his lips.
As Dorian was still a boy and had not yet felt the circumcision knife, Tahi could go unveiled in his presence. She was that lowliest creature, a divorced woman. Her husband was one of the Prince’s grooms. Unable to give him a son, Tahi had been discarded. Only al-Malik’s beneficence and compassion had saved her from begging in the streets and souks of Lamu.
Tahi was big and plump and round all over, her skin well greased and brown. She loved her food and had a jolly laugh, and an easy-going disposition. Her loyalty and devotion to the Prince were the centre of her existence. Now, suddenly, Dorian was the son of her master.
Like all the others on board, Tahi was smitten by his beautiful red hair, his strange pale green eyes and milky white skin. When he unleashed the full force of his sunny smile and winning charm upon her she could not resist him. Childless herself, he assuaged all her maternal instincts, and very soon she had lost her heart to him.
When the Prince appointed her Dorian’s official nurse, she wept with gratification. It did not take long for Dorian to discover that her bland, almost bovine features concealed a shrewd intelligence and a sharp political sense. She understood all the currents of power and influence in the Prince’s court and navigated these with rare skill. She explained to him who were the great and important men in the Prince’s retinue, their strengths and their failings, their foibles and how to treat each of them. She coached him in the etiquette of the court, and in how to comport himself in the presence of the Prince and his followers.
For Dorian the nights were the only bad times. In the dark, memories of Tom and his father crept up on him and overwhelmed him. One night Tahi woke to hear stifled sobs coming from where Dorian lay on his thin mattress on the far side of the little cabin they shared. An outcast herself, she understood instinctively the homesickness and loneliness of a small boy torn from his family and all things familiar and dear, cast among strangers of a different race, religion and way of life.
She rose quietly and went to him, lying beside him on the mattress and taking him into her warm, soft, motherly embrace. At first Dorian tried to resist, and pushed her away, but then he let himself relax and lie still in her arms. She murmured little endearments against the top of his shining head, all the love words she had bottled up inside her for the son her barren womb had denied her. After a while the rigidity went out of Dorian’s body and he moved closer to her, cuddling his head between her great round breasts, and at last he slept. The next night he went to her mattress quite naturally and she opened her fat arms and drew him to her. ‘My baby,’ she whispered, in wonder at the depth of her emotion. ‘My own beautiful baby.’
Dorian could not remember the comfort of his own mother’s arms, but there was a deep need in him. Tahi soon came to fill a great part of that void.
As the dhow drew closer to her home port, Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik sat under his awning not too deeply involved in affairs of state and business to lack time to ponder the prophecy of the saint, and to watch the boy with a veiled but keen appraisal. ‘Al-Allama,’ he used the family name of his mullah, ‘what revelations have you received regarding the child?’
The mullah hooded his eyes, shielding his thoughts from the penetrating perception of his master. ‘He is winsome, and he draws people to him as honey draws bees.’
‘That is evident.’ The Prince’s voice had an edge to it. ‘But it is not what I asked of you.’
‘It seems that he has those attributes described by the holy Taimtaim,’ al-Allama went on cautiously, ‘but it will be many years hence before we can be certain of that.’
‘In the meantime we must guard him well, and nurture those traits that are necessary to fulfil
the prophecy,’ al-Malik suggested.
‘We will do all in our power, great Prince.’
‘It will be your duty to lead him in the paths of righteousness, and reveal to him the wisdom of the Prophet so that he will in time come gently to the faith and submit himself to Islam.’
‘He is a child still. We cannot hope to place a man’s head on such young shoulders.’
‘Every journey begins with the first step,’ the Prince contradicted him. ‘Already he speaks the sacred language of the Faith better than some of my other children, and he has displayed some knowledge of religious matters. He has been tutored. It will be your sacred duty to foster that knowledge and enlarge upon it until, in time, he submits to Islam. Only in that way can the prophecy be fulfilled in its entirety.’
‘As my lord commands.’ Al-Allama made a sign of acquiescence, touching his lips and his heart. ‘I will take the first step of the long journey this very day,’ he vowed to the Prince, who nodded his appreciation.
‘If it please Allah!’
After the midday prayers, and when the Prince had retired to his cabin in the stern to be with his concubines, al-Allama sought out the child. He was engrossed in discussion with Fouad. The captain was instructing him in navigation of the islands, pointing out to him the seabirds and clumps of drifting weed that indicated the run of the currents. He called these the rivers of the sea, and was explaining to Dorian how the islands and the shape of the coast affected these mighty rivers, bending and twisting them and subtly altering their shading of blue and green.
Under Ned Tyler’s instruction Dorian had come to enjoy every facet of the art of navigation. Some of his most pleasant memories were of working through a sun-shot with Tom, or taking a bearing on a land feature, then marking the chart and writing up the results in the ship’s log, arguing and laughing with his elder brother as they did so.