Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  Before he could complete the thought, the air was driven in upon his eardrums with such force that he reeled backwards. It seemed as though a mighty vice had closed upon his chest, and the solid rock jumped and shivered beneath his feet.

  He saw a tower of smoke, dust and red rock fragments shoot into the sky as high as the circling vulture. Then the earth was riven open, the buttress of rock split apart. The cliff shuddered, then swung outwards. It moved so slowly that he had time to think as he watched it. Black powder! I should have guessed it. They have blown out the buttress.

  The collapsing cliff fell more swiftly, rumbled, ground and roared. The screams of the men beneath it were puny and thin. It fell upon them and snuffed out their fruitless calls to God. The pass was blocked, and the long caravan cut in half like the body of a python divided by a single sword-cut.

  While Dorian still clung to his horse’s neck, his ears ringing and senses whirling, he saw the first flights of arrows dropping on to his men like clouds of locusts, and volleys of musket fire crashed down from the walls of the pass. Spurting powder smoke fogged the hot, still air, and he heard the lead shot splattering like hail on stone and living flesh alike.

  A hundred or more of his men had been crushed under the avalanche. Less than fifty of his warriors had escaped below the still dust-smoking ruins. The rest of his force was cut off in the top end of the pass. In an instant, he saw that the attackers had wrested the advantage, and he knew that in the next instant they would charge in to finish the bloody work they had begun so well. He swung up into the saddle and drew his scimitar.

  He and Batula were separated, but that was of little consequence for the press was too close for lance-work. It would be the sword and dagger when the fisi came down. The slaves had thrown themselves flat, as he had ordered. As they crouched against the stone floor in simulated terror, they were slipping off their chains and drawing out their weapons from the bundles they had carried on their heads.

  From the saddle he saw the fisi leap up from the ambush, and storm down the steep sides – black men in war feathers, brandishing light shields of raw hide, bounding from rock to rock, howling some savage war-cry. They carried short spears and heavy clubs. Then, with astonishment, Dorian saw a white man in the van, then another and a third.

  ‘God is great!’ Dorian roared.

  The crouching half-naked Arabs sprang up to meet the charge, scimitars in hand, and answered his cry. ‘God is great! Allah akbar!’

  Dorian spurred forward to reach a position from which he could command the battle, but a heavy lead musket-ball took his horse in the shoulder with a thump and it went down in a tangle of kicking limbs and equipment. Dorian jumped clear, and landed lightly on his feet. All around him was uproar, but through it he heard a single voice sing out: ‘Have at them, lads! Chop out their pagan bungholes!’ It was an English voice, rich with the earthy burr of Devon, and it shocked Dorian more than the explosion of gunpowder.

  ‘Englishmen!’ He had not heard the language spoken in many a long year. Suddenly all those years were brushed away. These were his countrymen. He found himself caught up in a whirlpool of divided emotions. He looked about him for a way in which to halt the battle, to save the lives of his own troops and his countrymen, who were pitted against each other.

  But the war-lance was sped and it was too late to change its flight. He looked for Yassie – she was still cowering under the shelter of her boulder. But she shouted a high warning and pointed beyond him. ‘At your back, lord!’ Dorian whirled to meet the man who rushed at him. He was a big, square-shouldered rogue, with a twisted nose and a curling bush of black beard. His face was deeply tanned by sun and wind, but there was something about his eyes, that green sparkle, that touched a deep chord in Dorian’s memory. There was not a moment for him to dwell on it, for the man came at him with a speed and poise that belied his size.

  Dorian caught the first thrust, but it was so powerful that it thrilled his right arm to the shoulder. He went into riposte, fluid and graceful, and the Englishman met him, caught his blade high in the natural line and swept it into the classic prolonged engagement, rolling their two blades together so that the steel shrieked and sang.

  In that instant Dorian realized three things: that the Englishman was the finest swordsman he had ever faced, that if he tried to break he was a dead man, and that he recognized the sword that had trapped his own blade. He had last seen it hanging at his father’s side as he stood on the quarterdeck of the old Seraph. The blue steel and the gold inlay shimmered and dazzled the eye. It was unmistakable.

  Then his opponent spoke for the first time, his voice hardly blunted by the effort he was extending to keep Dorian’s blade in check. ‘Come, Abdulla, let me slice another inch off your bald prickhead for you.’

  He spoke in Arabic, but Dorian knew that voice.

  ‘Tom!’ he wanted to shout, but the shock was so intense that his voice choked in his throat and no sound reached his lips. The muscles in his right arm went soft, and he dropped the point.

  No man living could afford to drop the point when Tom Courtney had him locked in prolonged engagement, and the killing stroke came like a flash of lightning out of a sunny blue summer sky. At the last moment Dorian twisted aside, disturbing his brother’s aim by a bare thumb’s width but then he felt the hit, high right in the chest, and the long slide of steel into his flesh. The scimitar spun from his nerveless fingers and he went down on his knees with the blade still in him.

  ‘Tom!’ He tried to call his name again, but no sound came. Tom reared back, plucking the steel out of his chest with a soft, sucking sound, like an infant releasing the teat. Dorian toppled forward on to his face. Tom stepped over him and sighted down the blade to finish it. Before he could make the killing stroke, a small body hurled itself between them, covering Dorian’s body protectively.

  ‘Damn you,’ Tom shouted, but held the stroke. ‘Get out of this!’ The boy, who was using his own body as a shield, was a mere child, and the act of sacrifice touched Tom even in his battle rage. He could have killed them both with a single thrust, through and through. But he could not bring himself to do it. He stepped back and tried to kick the youth off the Arab headman’s supine body, but the little fellow clung to his master like an oyster to a rock.

  He was screaming pitifully in Arabic. ‘Mercy! In the name of Allah, mercy!’

  At that moment Aboli shouted a warning: ‘At your back, Klebe!’ Tom spun round, his point high, to meet the rush of two half-naked men. For an instant he thought they were slaves who had been released miraculously from their chains and were now attacking him with scimitars they had conjured up from who knew where. Then he saw that their features were not negroid, but Arabic. By God, they were not slaves at all but fighting Mussulmen. He countered right and left, bringing them up short, then killed one and sent the other staggering away with a slash across his bare shoulder.

  ‘Klebe, it is a trap!’ Aboli roared again, and Tom had a moment to look around. Every one of the erstwhile slaves was free of his chains, and armed. They were swift and purposeful in their counter-attack. Already the Lozi spearmen were breaking up before their onslaught and most were in flight, scrambling back up the sides of the gorge in wild disarray.

  From the front of the column Tom saw a red Chinese rocket whoosh into the sky on a long tail of white smoke, and knew that it must be a signal to bring Arab reinforcements swarming down on them.

  Over the tumbled wall of raw red rock that blocked the back section of the pass came a wave of more Mussul-men, some in robes, the others in loincloths, rushing down to join the fight. Aboli and the little band of English seamen were already far outnumbered. Within minutes they would be cut off and overwhelmed by this fresh tide of warriors.

  ‘Get out, Klebe! It is lost. Get out!’

  ‘On me!’ Tom bellowed. ‘On me the Centaurus.’ He called the others to him. Alf Wilson and Luke Jervis broke through the enemy ranks and ran to his side. With Aboli and all the remain
ing seamen they formed a circle of steel, and retreated in the formation they had practised so often. With their headman down and out of the fighting, the Arabs seemed suddenly indecisive and reluctant to press themselves on to the hedge of swords. Tom reached the point at the foot of the cliff from where they could begin the climb back, and snapped, ‘Away with you, lads. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’

  They climbed hand over hand, sweating and cursing and panting. Before they reached the top the Arabs below had rallied and sent the first volleys of musket fire thudding into the rocks around them, loose chips showering on their heads, and the ricochets humming away. One of the English seamen was struck: the ball caught him in the back. He arched out and loosened his grip, then went sliding and rolling down the face. Tom glanced back and the moment his man reached the bottom he saw the Arabs swarm over his body and cut him to pieces. ‘Nothing we can do for poor Davie. Keep climbing,’ he grunted.

  Tom and Aboli scrambled over the crest together and were shielded from the fire below. They paused to draw breath and rally the others around them.

  The sweat was streaming down Aboli’s scarified face, and when he looked at Tom he shook his great bald head, needing no words to express his feelings eloquently.

  ‘Do not say it, Aboli. You have proved once again that you are as wise as God, but somewhat older and not so beautiful.’ Tom laughed raggedly, still out of breath. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get back to the horses.’

  Sarah was holding them in the dense bush of the gully. She took one look at their faces as they came scrambling back, dragging two wounded men with them, and asked no questions. Most of them were cut and bleeding, and all were drenched with sweat. There were not enough mounts for all, so Tom took Sarah up behind his saddle. Luke had one of the wounded with him, Alf Wilson the other, while the rest of the seamen grabbed a stirrup leather each and were dragged along as they headed back into the south. The Lozi warriors had scattered long before into the bush.

  ‘We have brought the whirlwind down upon ourselves. They will send an army after us,’ said Aboli.

  ‘Our days at Fort Providence have come to an end,’ Tom agreed, riding hard beside him. ‘Thank God, the Centaurus has no cargo to carry. The river is low but she will ride light, and we can be away downriver, before the Mussulmen can catch up with us.’

  Dorian lay where he had fallen in the gut of the pass. Ben Abram, the old surgeon, would not allow them to move him until he had placed a compress on the wound, and bound it up tightly to staunch the bleeding. ‘It has missed the heart and the lung,’ he said grimly, ‘but he is still in mortal danger.’

  They made a litter out of lance-shafts and a leather tent-fly, and eight men carried him gently through the shambles of the battlefield, where the other wounded groaned and called for water. Yasmini walked beside the litter. She had wound her headcloth tightly over her face to stifle her sobs and hide her tears.

  When they reached the grove of tall shade trees beside the river pool at the foot of the escarpment, the camp servants had already recovered the sheikh’s tent from among the scattered baggage and set it up. They laid al-Salil on his sleeping mat and propped him on the silk cushions. Ben Abram gave him a draught of the poppy, and he sank into an uneasy doze.

  ‘He will not die?’ Yasmini pleaded with Ben Abram. ‘Please tell me he will not die, old father.’

  ‘He is young and strong. With God’s grace, he will live, but it will take time for him to recover, and to regain the use of his right arm.’

  ‘I will stay by his side and will not rest until he does.’

  ‘I know you will, child.’

  Within the hour, there were loud voices outside the tent. Yassie flew out to protect her lord and drive them away. But even in his drugged state Dorian recognized the voices of Bashir al-Sind and Batula. ‘Let them enter!’ he called weakly, and Yassie had to stand aside.

  Bashir bowed at the entrance. ‘Lord Sheikh, I call down Allah’s protection upon you.’

  ‘What of the enemy?’

  ‘We came up as soon as we saw the rocket but we were too late. They had escaped.’

  ‘How many of the enemy were killed?’

  ‘Many black kaffirs, and three Franks.’

  ‘Was one of the Franks a big man with a black beard?’

  Bashir shook his head. ‘None of them. Two were small and thin, one bigger infidel had a grey beard.’

  Dorian felt a surge of relief. Tom had escaped. Then Batula spoke unbidden, his voice sharp and eager. ‘Lord, I have followed the sign of those fisi who fled the battlefield. They had horses hidden close by, and are running south, moving fast. But give the order and we will follow them.’

  Bashir cut in as eagerly, ‘Al-Salil, I have a thousand men ready and mounted, eager to hunt them down. I wait only for your order and then, by Allah, none will survive.’

  ‘No!’ The exclamation was torn from Dorian in pain, and Bashir blinked at the strength of his refusal.

  ‘Forgive my impertinence, great lord, but I do not understand. It was the centrepiece of our plans that we hunt down the infidel bandits.’

  ‘You are not to follow them. I forbid it.’ Dorian mustered all the force he had left to emphasize the order.

  ‘If we do not follow at once they will get clear away!’ Bashir saw the chance for glory snatched from him, and glanced across at Ben Abram. ‘Perhaps the severity of your wound has clouded your judgement, mighty lord.’

  Dorian struggled up on one elbow. ‘In the name of Allah, I swear this! If you flout my orders, I will carry your head on the point of my lance, and bury your body in a pigskin.’

  There was a long silence, then at last Bashir spoke softly. ‘Will the great lord, al-Salil, repeat these orders in front of the senior officers of the staff, that they may bear witness that it is not cowardice on my part that kept me in bate while the beaten enemy escaped?’

  The four senior officers came to the tent and Dorian repeated his command in front of them, then sent them away. When Bashir made to follow them Dorian stopped him. ‘There are matters here so deep that I cannot explain to you, Bashir. Forgive me that I seem to disparage you. Know only that you are still high in my favour.’ Bashir bowed, touched his heart and his lips, but his expression was cold and aloof as he backed out of the tent. Outside they heard him shouting angry orders to his troops to stand down.

  Dorian seemed to sink into a deep sleep. The silence in the tent was heavy, and Yasmini wiped the sweat from his brow with a damp cloth. After a long while, Dorian stirred and opened his eyes. He looked first at her and then at Ben Abram.

  ‘Are we alone?’ he asked, and they both nodded.

  ‘Come closer, old father. There is aught I must tell you.’ When Yasmini made as if to rise and leave the tent, he laid a hand on her arm to restrain her. As they both hovered over him, Dorian said quietly, ‘The man who struck me down was my brother. That was why I could not send Bashir after him.’

  ‘Is this possible, Dowie?’ Yasmini stared into his eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ Ben Abram spoke for him. ‘I know this brother and it is possible.’

  ‘Tell her, please, old father. I find it tiring to speak. Explain it to her.’

  Ben Abram took a minute to gather his words, then began to speak softly so that no one outside the tent could hear him. He told Yasmini how Dorian had been captured as a child and sold into slavery; how al-Malik had bought him from the pirates and adopted him. ‘I met him face to face, this brother of al-Salil. I came to know him well on the island after he had destroyed the lair of the pirates. His name is Tom. I was his captive, but he set me free and sent me with a message to al-Salil. He promised that he would never give up searching for him, and that one day he would find him and rescue him.’

  Yasmini looked to Dorian for confirmation, and he nodded. ‘Then why did he not hold to his oath to free you, this loyal brother of yours?’ she asked.

  Dorian looked abashed. ‘I cannot answer that,’ he admitted.
‘Brother Tom was never one to take his oath lightly. I suppose, in the end, after all the years, he simply forgot me.’

  ‘No,’ said Ben Abram. ‘There was something you never knew and that I could not tell you. Your brother came back to Zanzibar, searching for you. The Prince al-Malik would not surrender you. He sent the mullah al-Allama with a message to your brother. He told him that al-Amhara was dead of the fever, and they had placed a marker in the cemetery with your name upon it.’

  ‘That was when my father changed my name to al-Salil.’ Dorian’s voice became stronger and sharper as he understood. ‘It was to hide the truth from Tom. No wonder my brother gave up the search for me.’

  He closed his eyes and was silent. Yasmini thought he had fallen into coma, but then she saw a single tear squeeze out between his closed lids. Her heart contracted with pity for him. ‘What will you do, my love?’ She stroked his fiery red head.

  ‘I know not,’ he said. ‘It is all too cruel. I feel a sword dividing my soul.’

  ‘You are of Islam now,’ Ben Abram said. ‘Can you ever go back to your origins?’

  ‘Would your brother believe that you are alive, after you have been dead to him all these years?’ Yasmini asked.

  ‘And can you embrace him now, when he is the sworn enemy of your father, the Caliph al-Malik, and of your God and your people?’ Ben Abram twisted the knife in his heart.

  Dorian had no answer for either of them. He turned his face to the leather wall of the tent and took refuge in his weakness from the wound. Yasmini never left his side while he drifted in and out of consciousness, tormented by physical pain and by the emotional forces that tore at his heart and threatened to rend it apart.

  The army stagnated for days in the camp below the escarpment while their sheikh lay sequestered in his tent.

  Under Bashir’s direction, they gathered in the wounded and built thatched shelters for them beneath the shade trees. Ben Abram tended them. They buried their dead, but left undisturbed those who were already interred beneath the red rock of the avalanche. They repaired the smashed equipment and resharpened their weapons. Then they waited for further orders. None came. Bashir al-Sind strode angrily through the camp, lashing out at any man who crossed his path, and the men shared his frustration. They burned for a chance to avenge their comrades who had died in the narrows of the pass, but they could not move without the orders of al-Salil.