Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  Ugly rumours spread through the camp, that Bashir would rebel and take over command from the ailing sheikh. That the sheikh had died, that he had recovered, that he had sneaked away in the night and left them to their fate.

  Then another, stranger rumour flared through the ranks, that a second grand expeditionary force under the command of a prince of the royal house of Oman was marching up from the coast to join them. With this combined force, they would be allowed at last to pursue the infidel into his lair. This rumour was only hours old when they heard the low thump of distant war drums, at first so soft that it seemed to be the beating of their own hearts. The Arab soldiers crowded the high ground to look out across the plain, and thrilled to the blast of a ram’s-horn trumpet. They saw a splendid host approaching, with a staff of high-ranking officers riding at the head.

  They gathered in awe as these strangers rode into the camp. The officer who led the cohorts wore half-armour in the Turkish style with a pot-shaped helmet, spiked on top and with a padded neck flap. From the back of his horse this splendid figure addressed them in ringing tones.

  ‘I am Prince ibn al-Malik Abubaker. Men of Oman, loyal soldiers and true, I bring you sad tidings. Abd Muhammad al-Malik, my father and your Caliph, is dead in the Muscat palace, struck down in his prime by the sword of the black angel.’

  A groan went up from the ranks, for most of them had fought at Muscat to place al-Malik on the Elephant Throne and they had loved their Caliph. They threw themselves down on their knees, and cried out, ‘May God have mercy on his soul.’

  Abubaker let them give expression to their sorrow, then he held up a gloved hand for their silence. ‘Soldiers of the Caliph, I bring you salutations from your new ruler. Zayn al-Din, beloved elder son of al-Malik, who is now the Caliph. He bids me call you to swear allegiance and loyalty to him.’

  They knelt in rows with Bashir al-Sind at the head of the army and swore the oath of fealty, calling on God to witness it. By the time the ceremony was over, the sun was setting. Then Abubaker dismissed them, and called Bashir to him.

  ‘Where is that coward and traitor, al-Salil?’ he demanded. ‘On behalf of the Caliph, I have urgent business with him.’

  Dorian heard the pronouncement of his adoptive father’s death while he lay on the sleeping mat in his tent, for Abubaker’s voice carried clearly through the leather side wall. It seemed that all the foundations of his life were being torn out one at a time. He felt too weak and sick to surmount these shocks and hardships.

  Then he heard Zayn al-Din’s name, and the news of his accession to the Elephant Throne, and realized that his predicament was even worse than he had fancied. With a vast effort he put aside his sorrow for his father and his own debilitating physical suffering, took Yasmini’s hand and drew her closer to his bed. She was shaken by the news of al-Malik’s death, but not as deeply as Dorian, for she had hardly known her father as a man. She recovered from her sorrow swiftly when he shook her. ‘We are in great danger, Yassie. Now we are both completely in Zayn’s power. I do not have to tell you what that means, for Kush was a saint in comparison to our brother.’

  ‘How can we escape him, for you cannot move, Dowie? What can we do?’

  He told her what she must do for them, speaking softly and urgently, making her repeat every detail. ‘I would give you a written letter, but I cannot write with this arm. You must carry my message by word of mouth alone, but learn it well for otherwise it will not be believed.’

  She was quick-witted and, even in her confused state, she memorized it all perfectly at the first attempt, although she had difficulty in enunciating some of the words he taught her. There was no time for her to perfect them.

  ‘That will do. He will understand. Now, go!’ he ordered her.

  ‘I cannot leave you, lord,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Abubaker will recognize you if you stay by me. In his clutches, you will be no help to either of us.’

  She kissed him once, tenderly and lovingly, then rose to leave him, but there came a heavy tramp outside the tent and she shrank back into a corner, covered her head and shoulders with her shawl. At that moment the tent flap was thrown open and Bashir al-Sind stepped in. Ben Abram tried to intervene, and prevent him approaching the bed on which Dorian lay.

  ‘Al-Salil is sorely wounded and must not be disturbed.’

  Bashir pushed him aside contemptuously. ‘General Abubaker, the emissary of the Caliph, approaches!’ he warned Dorian, and his expression was cold and malicious. Dorian knew that he had changed allegiance and was no longer his loyal friend and ally.

  Behind him, Abubaker stepped into the tent, and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘So, the traitor yet lives. That is good. Al-Salil, who was once al-Amhara in the zenana at Lamu where we were playmates.’ He sniggered sarcastically. ‘I have come to take you to the Caliph to answer capital charges of treason. We will march for the coast tomorrow at dawn.’

  Ben Abram intervened again. ‘Noble Prince, he cannot be moved. His wound is grievous. It will endanger his very life.’

  Abubaker stepped close to the bed, and looked down at Dorian. ‘A wound, you say. How can I be certain he is not shirking?’

  Suddenly he reached down and grasped the padded dressing that covered Dorian’s chest. With one brutal gesture he ripped it away. The fresh-formed scab was stuck to the bandage, and as it came away Dorian stiffened and hissed with agony. Fresh blood started from the wound and trickled down his chest. In the corner of the tent Yasmini whimpered with sympathy, but none of them took notice of her. ‘It is but a mere scratch.’ Abubaker gave his opinion as he pretended to examine the open wound. ‘Not enough to keep a traitor from justice.’ He grabbed a handful of Dorian’s thick red hair and dragged him from the bed. ‘Get on your feet, traitor pig.’

  He pulled Dorian upright. ‘See, Doctor, how strong is your patient. He has been duping you. There is little wrong with him.’

  ‘Noble Prince, he will not survive such treatment, or the long march to the coast.’

  ‘Ben Abram, you doddering old goat, if he dies before we reach the coast I will have your head. Let it be a contest between you and me.’ He smiled, and showed all his uneven teeth. ‘You must do your best to keep al-Salil alive. For my part, I will do my best to kill him by degrees. We shall see who wins.’ He threw Dorian back onto his sleeping mat, and turned to stride out of the tent. Bashir followed him.

  Yasmini sprang up and rushed to Dorian. Although his face was contorted with agony, he whispered to her fiercely, ‘Go, woman. Waste not another moment. Find Batula and ride.’

  Tom and his band reached Fort Providence in three days of hard riding, and immediately started to make preparations to abandon the settlement. Aboli sent Fundi and three of his men upriver to fetch his family. ‘I cannot sail without them,’ he told Tom simply.

  ‘I would not expect that,’ Tom replied. ‘But they must make haste. We can be sure the Mussulmen are hard on our tracks.’

  Tom sent out pickets to cover all the approaches to the fort, so that they would have warning when the Arab forces appeared. Then, in haste, they began to load the Centaurus for her departure down the Lunga river. They fetched the light nine-pounder cannon from the emplacements on the stockade wall and placed them in their carriages on the upper deck. There was no ivory to take with them but they reloaded all the trade goods they had brought up from Good Hope at the beginning of the season. Sarah gathered all her treasures and brought them aboard, the linen and cutlery, pots and pans, medical stores and books almost filling their tiny cabin. Tom argued about the harpsichord.

  ‘I will buy you another,’ he promised, but when he saw that peculiar expression of hers he knew he was wasting his breath. With poor grace he allowed two seamen to carry it up the gangplank and sway it down into the hold.

  It was strange, but still there was no sign of pursuit from the north, and Tom sent out Aboli to make certain that the pickets covering the northern trails were alert and at their posts. This calm was
unnatural. Surely retribution must come soon.

  The days passed. Then, at last, Fundi returned downriver from Lozi Land with two dugout canoes carrying Zete and Falla, the two boys Zama and Tula, and the new babies. Sarah took them all under her wing. Tom sent an urgent messenger after Aboli, bidding him bring in the pickets for all was at last in readiness for the departure.

  Two days later there was a shout from the sentry on the watch-tower above the fort. ‘Riders coming from the north!’

  Tom climbed up the ladder, telescope in hand. ‘Where away?’ he demanded, and when the sentry pointed, he focused the telescope.

  Sarah climbed up to the top of the tower beside him. ‘Who is it?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s Aboli, bringing in the pickets.’ He whistled softly with relief and satisfaction. ‘And no sign of pursuit. It looks as though we might get clear away without a fight. I had not thought that possible. I cannot understand why the Mussulmen have let us off so lightly. Get all your little brats on board. We will shove off downriver as soon as Aboli steps on deck.’

  She started down the ladder, but he stopped her with another whistle. ‘Aboli is bringing in two strangers. Arabs, by God. Prisoners, by the look of it, for Aboli has them well trussed up. He has bagged himself a couple of enemy scouts. Like as not they will be able to tell us where their main force is.’

  Tom and Sarah were waiting for them when Aboli marched his captives aboard the Centaurus.

  ‘What fine fish are these you have netted, Aboli?’ Tom asked, as he eyed them. By their apparel they were Arabs, one a warrior, and a dangerous one by the look of him. The other was a slip of a boy, a pretty lad with big dark eyes, who was timid and fearful. ‘An unlikely pair,’ Tom said.

  The boy seemed encouraged by his easy tone. ‘Effendi, you speak my language?’ he asked softly, and his voice was sweet and unbroken.

  ‘Yes, boy. I speak Arabic.’

  ‘Your name is Tom?’

  ‘Damn you, you little scamp.’ Tom frowned and stepped towards him threateningly. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Tom, wait!’ Sarah stopped him. ‘She is a girl.’

  Tom stared hard into Yasmini’s face, then laughed. He snatched off her headcloth and her long dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. ‘So she is, and a mighty pretty one too. Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Princess Yasmini, and I bring you a message from Dowie.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘From Dowie.’ She looked desperate. ‘Dowie! Dowie!’

  She repeated it with different inflections, but Tom shook his head, puzzled.

  ‘I think she is trying to say Dorry,’ Sarah intervened, and relief rushed across Yasmini’s face.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Dowie! Dowie! Your brother.’

  Tom’s face turned ugly, swelling with dark blood. ‘You come here to mock me. My brother Dorry has been dead these many years. What are you playing at, you little bitch? Is this a trap?’ he shouted into her face.

  Her eyes welled with tears, but she drew herself up and began to sing. Her voice was hesitant at first, but then it steadied, became sweet and true, but she sang in the semi-quavers of the Orient, alien to the European ear. The tune was twisted and the words were a parody of the English language. They all stared at her, in total incomprehension.

  Then Sarah gasped, ‘Tom, it’s “Spanish Ladies”. She is trying to sing “Spanish Ladies”!’ She rushed forward and embraced Yasmini. ‘It must be true. Dorian is alive, and the song is his sign that this girl comes from him.’

  ‘Dorian! Is it possible? Where is he?’ Tom grabbed one of Yasmini’s arms and shook it violently. ‘Where is my brother?’

  It came out in a garbled rush of words. Yasmini started another sentence before she had finished the one that preceded it, tripping over her tongue in her haste to tell it all, and leaving much out, so that she had to go back and start again.

  ‘Dorry needs help.’ Tom picked out the essentials, and turned to Aboli. ‘Dorry is alive, and in dire straits, and has sent them to fetch us.’

  ‘The horses are still saddled,’ Aboli said calmly. ‘We can ride at once.’

  Tom turned back to Yasmini, who was still gabbling out her story to Sarah. ‘Enough, girl!’ he stopped her. ‘There will be time later to tell the rest of it. Can you take us to Dorry?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said vehemently. ‘Batula and I can lead you to him.’

  Tom leaned down from the saddle to give Sarah a final hasty kiss. For once she had not insisted on accompanying this expedition. Tom should have realized by this unusual behaviour and by her recent reticence that something was afoot, but he was so distracted that he gave it not a thought.

  ‘Make sure Alf Wilson keeps everyone aboard, and all secure. When we return we will be in great haste, like as not with half of Araby hard on our heels.’ He gathered the reins, lifted his horse’s head and looked around for the others.

  Yasmini and Batula had already started, and were halfway up the first hill above the Lunga river. Luke and Aboli were hanging back, waiting for Tom to catch up with them. Everyone was dressed in Arab robes and led a spare horse on a rein. Tom clapped his heels into his horse’s flanks, and waved back at Sarah as it bounded forward under him.

  ‘Come back soon and safe!’ Sarah called after him, with one hand pressed lightly to her stomach.

  It had taken them four days, riding hard, changing horses every hour, using every glimmer of light from dawn to the brief African dusk, to catch up with the Arab column.

  Tom had ridden beside Yasmini all the way, and they had talked until their throats were dry with the dust and the heat. She had told him everything that had happened to Dorian since she had first met him in the zenana until his arrest by Abubaker only days before. This time her story was coherent and lucid, touched with humour and pathos, so at times Tom laughed with delight and at others was moved to the brink of tears. She showed him what type of man Dorian had become and made Tom proud. She told him of her and Dorian’s love for each other, and in the process won Tom’s affection and liking. He was enchanted by her pretty sparkle and her sunny nature. ‘So now you will be my little sister.’ He smiled at her fondly.

  ‘I like that, effendi.’ She smiled back. ‘It makes me very happy.’

  ‘If I am to be your brother, you must call me Tom.’

  When she reminded him of the fight in the pass, and explained how he had cut down his own brother, nearly run her through too, he was smitten with remorse. ‘He never showed his face! How could I know?’

  ‘He understands, Tom. He loves you still.’

  ‘I might have killed both of you. It was as though something outside me held my hand.’

  ‘God’s ways are marvellous, and not for us to question.’

  She led him through the complicated maze of royal Omani politics, explained how they had been caught up in them, and the consequences to Dorian of Zayn al-Din’s accession to the caliphate. ‘So now Abubaker takes him back to Muscat to face the spite and vengeance of Zayn,’ she said, and the tears ran down her dusty face.

  He leaned across and patted her arm like a brother. ‘We will see to that, Yasmini. Please do not weep.’

  They cut the wide deep spoor of the marching Arab army and closed in on it until they could make out the dustcloud above the forest. Then Batula went ahead while the rest hung back and waited until night fell. He would be able to infiltrate the loose mass of veiled riders without drawing attention or suspicion.

  Just as the sun was setting he returned along the back trail. ‘Praise God, al-Salil is still alive,’ were his first words. To Tom, the use of Dorian’s Arab name still sounded strange. ‘I have seen him from afar, but did not try to reach him. They bear him on a drag litter behind a horse.’

  ‘How strong did he seem?’ Tom demanded.

  ‘He can walk a little,’ Batula replied. ‘I saw Ben Abram help him from the litter and lead him to the tent where they have him now. His right arm is still in a sling. He moves slowly, stiffl
y, like an old man, but he carries his head high. He is stronger than when we left him.’

  ‘Praise God’s Name,’ whispered Yasmini.

  ‘Can you lead us to his tent, Batula?’ Tom asked.

  Batula nodded. ‘Yes, but they guard him well.’

  ‘Have they put chains on him?’

  ‘No, effendi. They must consider his wound enough restraint.’

  ‘We will bring him out this very night,’ Tom decided. ‘This is how we will do it.’

  They approached the camp from upwind so that their horses would not smell those of the Arabs and whinny to them. They left Yasmini to hold them, and went forward to the edge of the forest. The camp was as murmurous as a beehive and the air was blue and thick with the smoke of hundreds of cooking-fires. There was constant movement, grooms and slaves coming and going from the horse lines, men drifting into the surrounding bush on personal business and returning to their sleeping mats, the cooks bearing steaming rice pots through the camp and doling out the evening meal. Few sentries were set, and little order enforced.

  ‘Abubaker is no real soldier,’ Batula said contemptuously. ‘Al-Salil would never allow such lack of discipline.’

  Tom sent Batula into the camp first, and the rest followed him singly at intervals, moving casually, veiled and robed with their weapons concealed. Batula went towards a hollow in the centre of the encampment where a leather tent had been set up in isolation from the others. In the firelight Tom saw that the scrub around it had not been cleared, but that at least three guards were posted around it. They squatted with their weapons across their laps.