Birds of Prey (76 page)

He went on sorting through the other documents. There was a second letter from Winterton, agreeing to the
Golden Bough
’s commission as a warship in the service of the Prester John,
and a flowery letter of introduction to him signed by the Chancellor of England, the Earl of Clarendon, under the Great Seal, commending Christopher Llewellyn to the ruler of Ethiopia in the
highest terms.

‘Ah! That is of more value. With some small alteration to the name, even I would fall for that!’ He folded it carefully and replaced the chest, the purses, the books and documents in
the strong-box, and hung the key on a ribbon around his neck. While he finished the rest of the brandy he considered the courses of action that were now open to him.

This war in the Great Horn intrigued him. Soon the south-east trade winds would begin to blow across the Ocean of the Indies. On their benevolent wings the Great Mogul would be sending his dhows
laden with troops and treasure from his empire on the mainland of India and Further India to his
entrepôts
on the African coast. There would also be the annual pilgrimage of the
faithful of Islam taking advantage of the same fair wind to sail up the Arabian Sea on their journey to the birthplace of the Prophet of God. Potentates and princes, ministers of state and rich
merchants from every corner of the Orient, they would carry with them such riches as he could only guess at, to lay as offerings in the holy mosques and temples of Mecca and Medina.

Cumbrae allowed himself a few minutes to dream of pigeon’s-blood rubies and cornflower sapphires the size of his fist, and elephant-loads of silver and gold bullion. ‘With the
Gull
and the
Golden Bough
sailing together, there ain’t no black heathen prince who will be able to deny me. I will fill my holds with the best of it. Franky Courtney’s
miserly little treasure pales beside such abundance,’ he consoled himself. It still rankled sorely that he had not been able to find Franky’s hiding place, and he scowled. ‘When I
sail from this lagoon, I will leave the bones of Jiri and those other lying blackamoors as signposts to mark my passing,’ he promised himself.

Sam Bowles interrupted his thoughts by sticking his head into the cabin. ‘Begging your pardon, your grace, we’ve rounded up all the prisoners. It was a clean sweep. Not one of them
got away.’

The Buzzard heaved himself to his feet, glad to have a distraction from these niggling regrets. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got for me, then.’

The prisoners were bound and squatting in three files in the ship’s waist. ‘Forty-two hardened salt-water men,’ said Sam proudly, ‘sound in wind and limb.’

‘None of them wounded?’ the Buzzard asked incredulously.

Sam answered in a whisper, ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to be bothered to play nursemaid to such. We held their heads under water to help them on their way into the bosom of Jesus. For
most of them it was a mercy.’

‘I’m amazed at your compassion, Mr Bowles,’ Cumbrae grunted, ‘but in future spare me such details. You know I’m a man of gentle persuasion.’ He put that
matter out of his mind and contemplated his prisoners. Despite Sam’s assurance, many had been heavily beaten, their eyes were blackened and their lips cut and swollen. They hung their heads
and none would look at him.

He walked slowly down the squatting ranks, now and then seizing a handful of hair and lifting the man’s face to study it. When he reached the end of the line he came back and addressed
them jovially: ‘Hear me, my bully lads, I have a berth for all of you. Sail with me and you shall have a shilling a month and a fair share of the prize money and, as sure as my name is Angus
Cochran, there’ll be sackloads of gold and silver to share.’

None replied, and he frowned. ‘Are you deaf or has the devil got your tongues? Who will sail with Cochran of Cumbrae?’ The silence hung heavily over the deck. He strode forward and
picked out one of the most intelligent-looking of his prisoners. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

‘Davey Morgan.’

‘Will you sail with me, Davey?’

Slowly the man lifted his head and stared at the Buzzard. ‘I saw young Mr Winterton slaughtered and the captain shot down in cold blood on the beach. I’ll not sail with any murdering
pirate.’

‘Pirate!’ the Buzzard screamed. ‘You dare to call me pirate, you lump of stinking offal? You were born to feed the seagulls, and that’s what you shall do!’ The
great claymore rasped from its scabbard, and he swung it down to cleave Davey Morgan’s head, through the teeth as far as his shoulders. With the bloody sword in his hand he strode down the
line of prisoners.

‘Is there another among you who would dare to call me pirate to my face?’ No man spoke out, and at last Cumbrae rounded on Sam Bowles. ‘Lock them all in the
Golden
Bough
’s hold. Feed them on half a pint of water and a biscuit a day. Let them think about my offer more seriously. In a few days’ time I’ll speak to these lovelies again, and
we shall see if they have better manners then.’

He took Sam aside and spoke in a quieter tone. ‘There is still some storm damage that needs repair.’ He pointed up at the rigging. ‘She’s your ship now, to sail and
command. Make all good at once. I want to leave this godforsaken anchorage as soon as I can. Do you hear me, Captain Bowles?’

Sam Bowles’s face lit with pleasure at the title. ‘You can rely on me, your grace.’

Cumbrae strode to the entryport and slid down into one of the longboats. ‘Take me back to the beach, varlets.’ He jumped over the side before they touched the sand and waded
knee-deep to the shore where Colonel Schreuder was waiting for him.

‘My lord, I must speak to you,’ he said, and the Buzzard smiled at him engagingly.

‘Your discourse always gives me pleasure, sir. Come with me. We can talk while I go about my affairs.’ He led the way across the beach, and into the grove.

‘Captain Llewellyn was—’ Schreuder began, but the Buzzard cut him off.

‘Llewellyn was a bloody pirate. I was defending myself from his treachery.’ He stopped abruptly and faced Schreuder, hauling up his sleeve to display the ridged purple scar that
disfigured his shoulder. ‘Do you see that? That’s what I got for trusting Llewellyn once before. If I had not forestalled him, his desperadoes would have fallen on us and slaughtered us
where we stood. I am sure that you understand and that you are grateful for my intervention. It could have been you going that way.’

He pointed at the group of his men who were staggering up from the beach, dragging the corpses of Llewellyn and Vincent Winterton by their legs. Llewellyn’s shattered head left a red drag
mark through the sand.

Schreuder stared aghast at the burial party. He recognized in Cumbrae’s words both a warning and a threat. Beyond the first line of trees was a series of deep trenches that had been
freshly dug all over the area where once Sir Francis Courtney’s encampment had stood. His hut was gone but in its place was a pit twenty feet deep, its bottom filled with seepage of brackish
lagoon water. There was another extensive excavation on the site of the old spice godown. It looked as though an army of miners had been at work among the trees. The Buzzard’s men dragged the
corpses to the nearest of these pits and dumped them unceremoniously into it. The bodies slid down the steep side and splashed into the puddle at the bottom.

Schreuder looked troubled and uncertain. ‘I find it difficult to believe that Llewellyn was such a person.’ But Cumbrae would not let him finish.

‘By God, Schreuder, do you doubt my word? What of your assurance that you wanted to throw in your lot with me? If my actions offend you then it’s better that we part now. I will give
you one of the pinnaces from the
Golden Bough
, and a crew of Llewellyn’s pirates to help you make your own way back to Good Hope. You can explain your fine scruples to Governor van de
Velde. Is that more to your liking?’

‘No, sir, it is not,’ said Schreuder hurriedly. ‘You know I cannot return to Good Hope.’

‘Well, then, Colonel, are you still with me?’

Schreuder hesitated, watching the grisly labours of the burial teams. He knew that if he crossed Cumbrae he would probably end up in the pit with Llewellyn and the sailors from the
Golden
Bough
. He was trapped.

‘I am still with you,’ he said at last.

The Buzzard nodded. ‘Here’s my hand on it, then.’ He thrust out his huge freckled fist covered with wiry ginger hair. Slowly Schreuder reached out and took it. Cumbrae could
see in his eyes the realization dawning that from now onwards he would be beyond the pale and was content that he could trust Schreuder at last. By accepting and condoning the massacre of the
officers and crew of the
Golden Bough
he had made himself a pirate and an outlaw. He was, in every sense, the Buzzard’s man.

‘Come along with me, sir. Let me show you what we have done here.’ Cumbrae changed the subject easily, and led Schreuder past the mass grave without another glance at the pile of
corpses. ‘You see, I knew Francis Courtney well – we were like brothers. I am still certain that his fortune is hidden hereabouts. He has what he took from the
Standvastigheid
and that from the
Heerlycke Nacht
. By the blood of all the saints, there must be twenty thousand pounds buried somewhere under these sands.’

At that they came to the long, deep trench where forty of Cumbrae’s men were already back at work with spades. Among them were the three black seamen he had bought on the slave block at
Good Hope.

‘Jiri!’ the Buzzard bellowed. ‘Matesi! Kimatti!’ The slaves jumped, threw down their spades and scrambled out of the ditch in trepidation to face their master.

‘Look at these great beauties, sir. I paid five hundred florins for each. It was the worst bargain I ever struck. Here before your eyes you have living proof that there are only three
things a blackamoor can do well. He can prevaricate, thieve and swive.’ The Buzzard let fly a guffaw. ‘Isn’t that the truth, Jiri?’

‘Yes, lordy.’ Jiri grinned and agreed. ‘It’s God’s own truth.’

The Buzzard stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun. ‘What do you know about God, you heathen?’ he roared and, with a mighty swing of his fist, he knocked Jiri back into the
ditch. ‘Get back to work all three of you!’

They seized their spades and attacked the bottom of the ditch in a frenzy, sending earth flying over the parapet in a cloud. Cumbrae stood above them, his hands on his hips. ‘Listen to me,
you sons of midnight. You tell me that the treasure I seek is buried here. Well, then, find it for me or you won’t be coming with me when I sail away. I’ll bury all three of you in this
grave that you’re digging with your own sooty paws. Do you hear me?’

‘We hear you, lordy,’ they answered in chorus.

He took Schreuder’s arm in a companionable grip and led him away. ‘I have come to accept the sad fact that they never truly knew the whereabouts of Franky’s hoard.
They’ve been jollying me along all these months. My rascals and I have had just about a bellyful of playing at moles. Let me offer you the hospitality of my humble abode and a mug of whisky,
and you can tell me all you know about this pretty little war that’s a-going on between the great Mogul and the Prester. Methinks, you and I might well find better occupation and more profit
elsewhere than here at Elephant Lagoon.’

I
n the firelight Hal studied his band as they ate, with ravenous appetite, their dinner of smoked meat. The hunting had been poor in these last
days and most of them were tired. His own seamen had never been slaves. Their labour on the walls of the castle of Good Hope had not broken or cowed them. Rather it had hardened them, and now the
long march had put a temper on them. He could want no more from them: they were tough and tried warriors. Althuda he liked and trusted, but he had been a slave from childhood and some of his men
would never be fighters. Sabah was a disappointment. He had not fulfilled Hal’s expectation of him. He had become sullen and obstructive. He shirked his duties and protested at the orders Hal
gave him. His favourite cry had become, ‘I am a slave no longer! No man has the right to command me!’

Sabah would not fare well if matched against the likes of the Buzzard’s seamen, Hal thought, but he looked up and smiled as Sukeena came to sit beside him.

‘Do not make an enemy of Sabah,’ she whispered quietly.

‘I do not wish that,’ he replied, ‘but every man among us must do his part.’ He looked down at her tenderly. ‘You are the worth of ten men like Sabah, but today I
saw you stumble more than once and when you thought I was not watching you there was pain in your eyes. Are you sickening, my sweetheart? Am I truly setting too hard a pace?’

‘You are too fond, Gundwane.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I will walk with you to the very gates of hell and not complain.’

‘I know you would, and it worries me. If you do not complain, how will I ever know what ails you?’

‘Nothing ails me,’ she assured him.

‘Swear it to me,’ he insisted. ‘You are not hiding any illness from me.’

‘I swear it to you, with this kiss.’ She gave him her lips. ‘All is as well as God ever intended. And I will prove it to you.’ She took his hand and led him to the dark
corner of the stockade where she had laid out their bed.

Though her body melted into his as sweetly as before, there was a softness and languor in her loving that was strange and, though it delighted him while his passion was in white heat, afterwards
it left him with a sense of disquiet and puzzlement. He was aware that something had changed but he was at a loss as to exactly what was different.

The next day he watched her carefully during the long march, and it seemed to him that on the steeper ground her step was not as spry as it had been. Then, when the heat was fiercest, she lost
her place in the column and began to fall back. Zwaantie went to help her over a rough place in the elephant path that they were following but Sukeena said something sharply to her and thrust away
her hand. Hal slowed the pace, almost imperceptibly, to give her respite, and called the midday halt earlier than he had on the preceding days.