Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  Sarah nodded. ‘I am ready. I have made all my preparations, but hurry, Caroline. Tom will believe I am not coming. He will tire of waiting, and leave.’

  Caroline went to the door, and called to the guard to open up. When she left, he locked the door behind her. Caroline went directly to the stables and shouted for Assam. ‘Saddle my mare.’

  When the groom hesitated, she stamped her foot. ‘At once! Or I will have you beaten,’ she snapped. ‘I am in haste. I have promised to meet the master at the fort.’

  Within minutes Assam brought out the horse and Caroline took the reins from him. ‘Go to the gates and tell the guards to open up. I am coming out.’ Thoroughly intimidated by now, Assam ran to obey.

  Trying not to hurry, or show her agitation, Caroline led the saddled mare across the lawns to the end of the veranda. The guard at Sarah’s door stood to greet her, and she proffered the letter from her father.

  ‘Give this to my sister immediately,’ she ordered. He slung the musket over his shoulder and took the letter from her. He went to the door and knocked upon it.

  After a moment Sarah called from within, ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter, Donna.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  He unlocked the door, and swung it open. Sarah stepped out, and thrust the pair of pistols into his startled face. The hammers were cocked and her fingers were curled around the triggers. ‘Lie down on your face,’ she ordered, but instead of obeying the guard snatched the musket from his shoulder and tried to cock the hammer. Calmly Sarah lowered the aim of the pistol in her right hand and, at point-blank range, shot him in the knee. He squealed and collapsed on the tiles of the veranda, the shattered leg twisted under him. Sarah kicked away the fallen musket.

  ‘Fool, you should have done as I ordered,’ she told him harshly. ‘The next ball will be in your head.’ She touched the muzzle of the other pistol to his forehead.

  He covered his face and cowered at her feet, and Sarah thrust the fired pistol into her belt, then stepped back into the doorway. She picked up the leather bag into which she had packed her most treasured possessions and dragged it out onto the veranda.

  In the meantime Caroline had run forward to help her hoist the bag onto the saddle. Then the two sisters embraced swiftly but passionately.

  ‘Go with God, my darling Sarah. I wish you and Tom all joy of each other.’

  ‘I know that you love him also, Caroline.’

  ‘Yes, but he is yours now. Treat him kindly.’

  ‘Kiss Christopher for me.’

  ‘We will both miss you, but go now! Hurry!’ Caroline made a step for her with her linked hands and boosted Sarah up into the saddle. ‘Goodbye, my sister,’ she called as Sarah urged the mare into a gallop and sped away across the lawns.

  Assam saw her coming, and shouted to the other guards to close the gates, but Sarah rode straight at him and he had to throw himself aside to avoid being knocked down by the driving hoofs. The mare flew through the open gates and out into the forest. Sarah turned her onto the path that led southwards, through the palm groves to the ruined monastery.

  ‘Please wait, Tom,’ she whispered, and the wind flung away the words, and sent her long hair streaming out behind her like a flag. ‘Please wait for me, my darling, I am coming.’ She pushed the mare to the top of her speed and the boles of the palm trees streamed past her in a blur.

  At the gates of the monastery she pulled the mare down from full gallop to a plunging halt. The animal fidgeted and threw her head, sweating nervously, unaccustomed to such rough treatment.

  ‘Tom!’ Sarah screamed, and the echoes from the ancient walls mocked her. ‘Tom!’

  He has gone, she thought. While the mare backed and circled under her, she leaned out of the saddle and searched the soft ground. She picked out Tom’s fresh footprints coming up from the beach, and the trampled area in front of the gateway where he had paced back and forth, waiting for her. Then, his patience clearly exhausted, the string of his footprints headed back towards the beach.

  ‘Tom!’ she shouted in despair, and put the mare at the narrow track through the undergrowth. The branches whipped against her legs as they raced down beside the stream and at last burst out onto the white coral sands, with the limpid water of the lagoon in front of her.

  She saw the mark that the keel of the felucca had left at the water’s edge, and then she looked up and saw the tiny craft. It was moving slowly towards the gap in the reef, half a mile away. Tom was in the stern with the long bamboo pole in his hands, punting her over the shallow flats.

  ‘Tom!’ she screamed and waved. ‘Tom!’

  But the wind fretted in the palms and the surf boomed and boiled on the outer reef, smothering her cries. The tiny felucca moved away doggedly, and Tom did not look back.

  She urged the mare into the water, and though at first she baulked, she was a game little horse and she plunged forward, leaping and lunging through the deeper holes, until the water reached halfway up her shoulders, and Sarah’s boots and skirts were soaked. But the felucca was moving faster, drawing away from them.

  ‘Tom!’ Sarah called in agony. Then she pulled the second pistol from her belt, pointed it at the sky and fired. The report was an insignificant pop in the immensity of sea and wind. ‘He has not heard!’

  It took a long second for the sound to carry, then she saw Tom’s distant figure start, and he looked back at her.

  ‘Oh, praise God!’ She almost wept with relief.

  With an expert thrust of the pole Tom spun the felucca about, and sent it gliding back across the lagoon. ‘Where were you? What has happened?’ he shouted across as he came within hail.

  ‘Guy has found out about you and William,’ she called back. ‘He has gone to the fort to raise the guard. They are going to seize you and your ship.’

  She saw his expression harden, but he said nothing as he brought the boat alongside the mare. Then he threw down the punt pole, reached across to seize her around the waist and lift her from the saddle. He set her down on the deck.

  ‘My bag!’ she panted. He pulled the dirk from the sheath on his belt and cut the thong that tied it to the pommel. He dragged it on board, slapped the mare, and she turned and floundered back towards the beach. Tom grabbed the bamboo pole and aimed the bows of the felucca at the pass once more.

  ‘How long ago did Guy go to the fort?’ he asked. ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘Not much. He left the consulate well over two hours ago.’

  ‘Stand by the halyard,’ he ordered grimly. ‘We will have to hoist the sail, and take a chance on the coral.’

  The lateen sail flapped and snapped, then filled with the monsoon wind. The felucca heeled sharply, and raced towards the gap in the reef. She skimmed through and as soon as the water turned blue under her keel Tom stood at the tiller and brought her round on a heading for the harbour where the Swallow lay at anchor.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ he ordered. She came to him and put her arms around his waist. ‘How did Guy find out?’

  ‘A ship came in last night.’

  ‘The Apostle,’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have expected this.’ He listened intently as she related all the details. When she had finished, he murmured, ‘God grant we are in time,’ and looked ahead as the harbour of Zanzibar opened before them, and he saw the little Swallow lying tranquilly at her anchor.

  ‘Thank God! They have not seized her yet,’ he said fervently, but at that moment they both saw the flotilla of a dozen small boats that had left the stone quay below the fort and were streaming across the bay towards the ship. Tom shaded his eyes, and stared across the mile of water that separated them from the leading boat. He recognized the tall lean figure in the plumed hat in the bows. ‘Guy is keen as a hound with the smell of the fox hot in his nostrils.’

  The barge was riding low in the water under the weight of the armed men crowded into it. All the other craft in the flotilla were similarly laden.

  ‘He has a hundre
d of the Sultan’s rascals with him, at least,’ Tom calculated. ‘He is taking no chances.’

  He glanced up at the masthead, and judged the strength and direction of the wind on his cheek. He had sailed the craft enough by now to know all her foibles well, and how to squeeze every foot of speed out of her. ‘Harden her up a little,’ he called to Sarah, who ran forward to the boom sheet. The felucca liked her touch and surged forward under their feet.

  ‘It will be a near-run thing.’ Tom eyed the leading boat, and calculated the difference in speed and course. They had the advantage of the wind, on a broad reach. Guy was close-hauled, making heavy weather of it with his overloaded hull deep in the water. Tom doubted that the other boat could reach the anchored Swallow on a single tack. On the other hand, the felucca must cut right across the bows of Guy’s dhow. Tom narrowed his eyes as he judged the converging course.

  ‘We are going to pass within easy musket shot of the leading boat,’ he told Sarah. ‘Pile those nets and fish boxes along the starboard rail and lie flat behind them.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I am immune to musket-balls.’ He grinned. ‘And, besides, all Arabs are poor shots.’

  If she had not loved him so much, she might have been more impressed by his disregard of danger. ‘My place is at your side,’ she said stubbornly, trying to match his show of courage.

  ‘Your place is where I say it is.’ His expression became bleak and cold. ‘Get down, woman.’

  She had never seen him like this before, and it took her off-balance. She found herself obeying meekly, and only when she was lying flat on the smelly deck, protected by the nets and heavy wooden boxes, did she begin to recover her sense of independence.

  I must not let him get the upper hand so soon, she warned herself, but her thoughts were interrupted by a faint shout. The Arabs in the leading dhow had spotted the little felucca racing across their quarter. The vessel heeled dangerously as they crowded to the rail to stare across the gap, jabbering and gesticulating, cocking and brandishing their long-barrelled jezails.

  ‘Stop!’ Guy’s voice was faint on the wind, but they were close enough now for Tom to see clearly his dark, furious expression. ‘Heave to, at once, Tom Courtney, or I will order my men to fire upon you.’

  Tom laughed and waved cheerily. ‘Piss into the wind, dear brother, and get it all back into your face.’

  They were less than a hundred yards apart, a pistol shot, and Guy called to the Arab musketeers who crammed the open deck of the dhow and, with his drawn sword, pointed across at the felucca. In response they levelled their muskets and, despite his braggadocio, Tom felt a qualm of fear as he looked into the line of weapons aimed across the gap at him.

  ‘Fire!’ Guy yelled, with a sweep of his sword. There was a blast, and a bank of thick white powder smoke briefly obscured the dhow.

  The air around Tom’s head was filled with the whir and buzz of passing shot, the heavy lead balls kicked spurts of spray from the surface of the water all around the hull of the felucca and thudded into her side, knocking white splinters from her timbers.

  Tom felt something pluck at the sleeve of his shirt, and when he glanced down there was a tear in the cloth, and a thin trickle of blood from the shallow wound across his biceps.

  ‘Are you all right, Tom?’ Sarah asked anxiously, from where she lay at his feet. He laughed again and turned half away so she could not see the blood on his sleeve.

  ‘I told you they’re poor shots.’ He lifted his hat and with it gave Guy a mocking salute. But at the movement a few drops of scarlet splattered the dirty deck at his feet. Sarah saw the blood, and her face blanched. Then, without hesitation, she sprang to her feet and rushed back to the stern.

  ‘Get back!’ Tom snapped. ‘Those are real musket-balls. You could be killed.’

  Sarah ignored him, and placed herself four square in front of him, shielding him with her own body. She threw back the shawl from her shoulders and shook out her hair so that it flew out like a banner on the wind.

  ‘Shoot!’ she screamed across at the barge. ‘Shoot me, if you dare, Guy Courtney!’ They were close enough to see the frustration and fury on Guy’s face.

  ‘Get down, Sarah,’ he yelled at her. ‘If you are hit it will be your own doing.’

  Tom tried to push her down on the deck but she flung both arms around his neck and clung to him. Her face was bright with fury as she glared across at the barge. ‘If you want your brother, you will have to kill me first,’ she shrieked at Guy.

  Guy’s expression changed from triumph to uncertainty. He looked back at his men. The musketeers were reloading frantically. Tom saw the tips of their ramrods pumping up and down as they drove fresh balls down the long barrels. It took even a good man fully two minutes to reload, and by the time the next volley was ready the two craft were as close as they would ever be as the felucca crossed the bows of the barge.

  The quicker and more expert of the musketeers finished loading and priming. Four of them cocked and raised their jezails in unison, sighting over the long barrels at the pair in the stern of the felucca. Still Guy hesitated, but then his grim expression crumbled, and with a sweep of his sword blade he knocked up the weapon of the man beside him, and shouted in Arabic, ‘Stop! Do not fire! You will hit the woman.’

  One man ignored the order and fired. There was a spurt of blue smoke from the muzzle of his jezail and the ball thudded into the tiller bar in Tom’s hand.

  ‘Stop!’ Guy yelled in fury, and slashed the sword down on the man’s wrist. There was a flash of bright blood and the man clutched his injured arm and staggered away across the deck.

  ‘Stop!’ Guy turned on the other men and, reluctantly, one at a time, they lowered their muskets. The felucca head-reached on the barge, then drew away from her.

  ‘You haven’t won yet, Tom Courtney!’ Guy shouted after them. ‘From now on, every man’s hand is against you. One of these days you will pay what you owe in full, I will see to that. I swear it!’

  Tom ignored his brother’s fading shouts of anger, and looked forward. The Swallow was now lying only a cable’s length ahead, but the musket fire from the barge had alerted her crew. They were swarming over her deck and climbing into her rigging. Ned Tyler was not waiting for orders to get the ship under weigh.

  Sarah hugged Tom around the waist, and looked back at the swarm of small boats that ploughed along behind them. ‘That was exciting,’ she said, and her eyes were sparkling.

  ‘Don’t you dare look so pleased with yourself, you little hussy.’ Tom hugged her. ‘You disobeyed my direct orders.’

  ‘You had best accustom yourself to that.’ She grinned up at him. ‘For it may happen again, some day.’ Then she became businesslike and with his dagger she cut the torn sleeve from his shirt. She used the cloth to bind up the flesh wound in his arm and staunch the bleeding. In the meantime they were coming up fast on the Swallow, and Tom told her, ‘Belay that, and get ready to jump sharply.’

  The capstan was clanking on the foredeck of the sloop as Ned Tyler hauled his anchor, and as the flukes pulled free of the bottom, the sloop paid off and began making stern way. Sarah pulled up her skirts and tucked them into her belt so that her legs were bare and free, and crouched by the rail.

  Tom saw Aboli’s head at the rail above him. As the hulls touched and Tom dropped the sail, Aboli jumped down like a great black panther ambushing a gazelle from the branch of a tree. His bare feet thudded on the deck as he landed beside Sarah. He swept her up in his arms. She shrieked in protest but in the same movement he sprang back, caught hold of the boarding ladder that dangled down the sloop’s side and carried her up onto the Swallow’s deck.

  Tom snatched up Sarah’s leather bag from where it lay on the deck of the felucca and jumped across the narrow gap of water that separated the hulls, allowing the felucca to drift free, and he followed Aboli up. As he swung one leg over the rail, Ned Tyler saluted him solemnly from the helm.
‘Welcome aboard, Captain,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tyler. I can think of no reason why we should linger here any longer. Get the ship on the wind, if you please.’

  He dropped Sarah’s bag on the deck and strode to the stern. As the Swallow came round, the dhow with Guy in her bows was two hundred yards dead astern, but the sloop drew away from it so swiftly that it seemed to be at anchor.

  Guy’s bare sword hung at his side, his shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and his face was contorted with frustration and hatred. When they saw Tom the men around him could no longer restrain themselves, and they opened a furious fusillade, banging away with their muskets, but Guy seemed oblivious to them. All his attention was concentrated on his twin brother.

  They stared at each other as the two vessels drew swiftly apart. Sarah came to stand beside Tom. Hand in hand they watched the shape of the barge dwindle until they could no longer make out Guy’s tall figure. Then the Swallow rounded the point and the harbour of Zanzibar closed behind them and the dhow was lost to sight.

  Dorian Courtney stood up. He had been on his knees praying to the God of his fathers. He wandered along the edge of the cliff, then stooped to pick up a pebble that had caught his eye. He wet it with his tongue then held it to the sunlight. It was pink agate striated with soft blue layers, and crowned with crystals of diamond clarity. It was beautiful.

  He leaned out and let it drop from his fingers, then watched it fall five hundred sheer feet down the cliffs. It dwindled in size and disappeared before it hit the surface of the sea far below. It left neither splash nor ripple upon the surface, no sign of anything so lovely ever having existed. Suddenly, for the first time in almost seven years, he thought of little Yasmini, who had vanished from his life in the same way.

  The wind tugged and his robe streamed out behind him, but his feet were planted wide and he felt no fear of the drop that opened at his feet. At his right hand the gaunt red rock cliff that stood so tall above the sea was riven by a narrow valley. In its depths, clinging precariously to the shore, were the palm groves, roofs and white domes of the village of Shihr. Dorian’s men were encamped among the low acacia thorn trees and palms further up the valley. The blue smoke of their camp-fires rose in oily tendrils, straight into the air until it caught the eddy of the wind over the summit of the cliffs and streamed away towards the forbidding hills and dunes of the desert.