The Monsoon (72 page)

Tom heard sounds behind him, somebody moaning hollowly and another sobbing with agony. A third person was flopping and kicking on the ground like a horse down with a broken leg. Tom dared not take his eyes off the men who still confronted him, but he must know that Aboli still covered his back.

“Aboli, are you hit?” he asked quietly.

At once there was a deep voice close behind him filled with scorn.

“These are apes, not warriors. They defile my blade with their blood.”

“Be not so fastidious, I beg you, old friend. How many more are there?”

“Many, but methinks they have lost stomach for the fare we are serving.” A knot of men was hovering in front of Aboli, just out of swordplay. He saw their first backward paces, and suddenly he threw back his head and let forth such a cry that even Tom was startled.

Despite himself he turned his head to look back.

Aboli’s mouth was a great red cavern, and the tattooed features were convulsed in a mask of animal ferocity. The cry he gave was the bellow of a great bull ape, a sound that shocked the ears and stunned the senses. The men before him were racing away into the darkness while the echoes rang across the dark river. The same panic seized those facing Tom: they whirled away and ran. Two were limping and weaving with their wounds, but they straggled away up a side-street and the sounds of their running feet dwindled into the silence of the encroaching mist.

“I think you will have summoned the watch.” Tom stooped and wiped his blade on the skirts of the dead whore.

“They will be on us in a minute.”

“Then let us go,” Aboli agreed, in a voice that seemed mild and soothing after the terrible cry that had preceded it.

They stepped over the crumpled bodies, and ran towards the head of the steps. Aboli raced down to where the ferryboat was moored, but Tom turned aside and went to the boatman.

“A old guinea for your hire!” Tom promised, as he ran to meet him. He was less than ten paces from him when the boatman threw open the folds of his cloak and raised the pistol he had concealed beneath it. Tom saw that it had twin barrels arranged side by side,

and that the muzzles were like a pair of black eyeless sockets.

As he stared into those blank eyes of death, the passage of the seconds seem to freeze. Everything took on an unreal, dreamlike quality. Although his eyesight seemed sharpened, and every sense was heightened, yet his movements were slowed as though he were wading through clinging mud.

He saw that both hammers of the pistol were at full cock. From under the brim of the wide hat a single dark eye glittered over the barrels at Tom, and a pale forefinger was hooked through the trigger guard, tightening inexorably.

Tom watched the hammer on the left barrel drop, the puff and flash of the priming as the flint struck the steel.

He tried to hurl himself aside but his limbs obeyed only lazily.

The boatman’s pistol hand was thrown head high and the weapon fired with a shattering blast. A cloud of blue gunsmoke filled the air between them. At the same instant Tom was struck a heavy blow in the body that threw him backwards. He went down heavily and lay on his back on the stones. I am hit, he thought, with surprise, as he sprawled on the top step. He felt the numb heaviness in his chest. He knew what that presaged. Perhaps I am killed, was his next thought and it made him angry. He glared up at the man who had shot him.

He still had the Neptune sword in his right hand, as he saw the pistol coming down, like a fatal basilisk, levelling its terrible blank gaze upon him. If I am killed then I can no longer move my sword arm.

The thought fumed in his brain, forcing him to pour every ounce of his strength and determination into his right arm.

To his astonishment the arm had lost none of its force.

It whipped forward and the sword flew from his fingers, thrown like a javelin. He watched its flight, point first, unwavering and true, the lantern-light sending golden sparks from the precious inlaid metal as it flew.

Standing over him, the boatman’s cloak had opened to expose his chest. He wore only a black silk shirt beneath it, laced at the throat. Before the second barrel of the pistol fired, the steel pierced the soft material under the raised pistol arm, and Tom watched its full glistening length disappear magically into the man’s torso.

The boatman stood rigid, locked in a mortal spasm, his heart cloven by the blade. Then he swayed backwards and his long legs, booted in polished black leather, gave way under him. He fell backwards, lay and writhed against the agony of the blade. Then swiftly his movements stilled.

Tom lifted himself on one elbow, and saw Aboli come bounding up the steps.

“Klebe! Where are you struck?”

“I know not. I feel nothing.” Aboli pulled aside the folds of his cloak, then ripped open the cloth of his shirt. He groped the hard young flesh beneath, and Tom exclaimed, “By God, gently! If I am not dead already you will soon see to it.” Aboli seized the lantern, which still burned on the top step, and opened the shutter fully. He shone the beam on to Tom’s naked chest. There was blood, much blood.

“Low in the right side,” he muttered, “not the heart but perhaps the lungs.” He shone the light into Tom’s eyes, and watched the pupils contract.

“Good! Now cough for me.” Tom did what he ordered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No blood!” he said, as he studied his unsullied palm.

“Thank all your gods and mine, Klebe,”Aboli grunted, as he pushed Tom back.

“This will hurt,” he promised.

“Shout if you will, but I must gauge the track of the ball.” He found the opening of the wound, and before Tom could brace himself slipped one long thick finger full length into it. Tom arched his back and screamed like a virgin being rudely deflowered.

“It has struck a rib, and glanced aside.” Aboli pulled his bloody finger out.

“It has not entered the cavity of your chest.” He ran his hand, slippery with warm blood, around the side of Tom’s chest under his arm, and felt the lump of the ball near his shoulder-blade.

“It has run between the bone and the skin. We will cut for it later.”

Then he lifted his great tattooed head as a shout echoed from the mouth of the dark lane that led down to the landing. It had the tone of harsh authority.

“Stand and yield, villains, in the name of the King!”

“The watch!” Aboli said.

“They must not take us here, surrounded by dead men.” He hauled Tom to his feet.

“Come, I will help you to the boat.”

“Unhand me!” Tom snapped at him, shrugging himself free.

“I have lost my sword.” Doubled over to favour his wounded side, Tom hobbled to where the boatman lay on his back. He placed his boot on the dead man’s chest and pulled free the long, shining blade. He was about to turn away and go down the steps but, on an impulse, he used the point of the blade to flick the wide-brimmed hat off the corpse’s head.

He stared at the dark, handsome face, surrounded by the garland of Nubian black hair that shone in the lamplight. The mouth was slack, no longer cruel, and the eyes stared into the night sky, blank and unseeing.

“Billy!” Tom whispered. He stared in horror at the face of his dead brother, and for the first time his legs went weak under him.

“Billy! I have murdered you.”

“There was no murder. “Aboli’s great arm closed around his shoulders.

“But if the watch take us here, there might well be.” He swept Tom half off his feet, and down the steps.

Then he tumbled him into the ferryboat and leaped in beside him.

With a slash of his sword he severed the painter that secured them to the iron mooring ring in the stone wharf and seized the oars. The boat leaped forward with the strength of his stroke.

“Stop! Surrender yourselves,” a hoarse voice shouted from the shore. In the mist there was the sound of running footsteps and the voices of more men.

“Stop, or I will fire upon you! This is the King’s watchman!” Aboli pulled with both oars, grunting with the effort, and the mist banks closed around them. The dark stones of the wharf disappeared in the swirling silver clouds. Then there was the heavy detonation of a blunderbuss, and the hum as a swarm of lead shot cut through the mist. It fell like hail on the surface of the river around them and a few pellets struck the woodwork of the boat. Tom crouched on the floorboards, hugging his injured side. Aboli heaved on the oars, sending-them further out on the broad waters.

The shouts of the watch faded swiftly behind them and Aboli stopped rowing.

“Please do not piss on me. Keep that black python locked in your breeches,” Tom pleaded, in mock terror of Aboli’s infamous treatment for all wounds.

Aboli grinned as he tore a strip of cloth from his undershirt.

“You do not deserve such pleasures. What stupidity to walk up to an enemy offering him money!” Aboli altered his tone to mimic Tom.

“A gold guinea for your hire!”” He chuckled.

“He surely gave you your guinea’s worth.” Aboli folded the piece of cloth into a pad and placed it over the bullet wound.

“Hold that there,” he told Tom.

“Press hard to staunch the bleeding!” Then he seized the oars again.

“The tide is with us. We will be at Eel Pie before midnight.”

They were silent for an hour, rowing on quietly in the mist banks.

Aboli found his way along the dark, hidden river as though it were broad day. Tom spoke at last.

“He was MY brother, Aboli.” Jaw* “He was also your enemy to the death.”

“I swore to my father on his deathbed.”

“You spared him once. All oaths to your father were discharged.”

“I will have to answer for his death at judgement Day.”

“That is long hence.” Aboli spoke in rhythm with the swinging oars.

“Let it wait until then, and I will bear witness for you, if your God will listen to the testimony of a heathen. How is your wound?”

“The bleeding is staunched, but it hurts.”

“That is good. When a wound does not hurt, you are dead.” They were silent again, until Tom heard the chimes of a church clock on the riverbank strike eight. He roused himself, and winced at the pain of the wound.

“Nicholas Childs must have sent word to Billy where to find us,” he said softly.

“In the middle of our discussion, he suddenly left the room. He was gone for a long time, time enough to send word to him.”

“Of course. He sent us out of our way in the carriage to afford your brother time to welcome us with his friends at the landing,” Aboli agreed.

“Childs will point to us as the murderers. The magistrates will send their bailiffs to take us. Childs will have many witnesses against us. The watchmen on the landing probably saw our faces. We will end up on the gallows tree, if they lay their hands upon us.”

This was so obviously the truth that Aboli made no comment.

“Childs wanted the Swallow. That is why he warned Billy where to find us. I thought the swine had resigned himself to our bargain, but he wanted it all from me, the cargo and the ship.”

“He is fat and greedy,” Aboli agreed.

“Childs knows where to send them. I told him the Swallow was moored at Eel Pie.”

“You are not to blame. You could not see the harm in it.” Tom moved restlessly, trying to ease the pain of the stiffening wound.

“Billy was a peer of the realm, an important man with powerful friends. They will be like bulldogs.

They will not let us go.” Aboli grunted, but never interrupted the rhythm of the oars.

“We must sail tonight,” Tom said firmly.

“We dare not wait until morning.”

“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 co key nuts,” Luke said.