HF - 01 - Caribee (9 page)

the sun went in. The men stopped, to stare at the heavens, and the huge black cloud which was coming up out of the forest.

'Now there's a relief,' North said, still speaking loudly. 'Some rain will just cool the air. Well, Captain Warner? No savages, eh? Not a thing. We shall to work. We'll make this place our headquarters, as it is the most imposing.'

They stood before the large building. This had been raised a li
tt
le higher than the others, and needed four steps. It had also been more stoutly built, and seemed in be
tt
er repair.

Tom looked up as the first drop of rain fell. Then we'd best to shelter. Mr Williams?'

The lieutenant nodded, and ran up the steps, drawing his sword as he did so. He put his boot to the door and thrust it in while the rain became heavier, dampening the dust of the street, crashing downwards with amazing force, bouncing off helmet and breastplate.

'Well, Mr Williams?' North demanded.

'The roof is in good repair,' Williams called.
‘It
will afford shelter. I will just test the flooring.' He stepped into the darkness. But scarcely had he gone when he u
tt
ered a shriek, which came booming out of the doorway in a long echo. 'By Christ,' North shouted.

'Musketeers, draw your swords,' Tom ordered, realizing that the matches would be useless in this downpour. 'Stay here, Edward.' His own weapon thrust forward, he ran at the steps, and stopped as the door moved. It had been no more than brushed by the monster which emerged, orange and brown in great splotches, fully six inches thick, a whipping eight-foot-long length of deadly horror with a vicious flat head dominated by the thrusting split tongue. It slid across the li
tt
le porch and down the steps, paused to glance at the terrified men, and disappeared into the long grass fringing the village. For a moment they stood as if petrified, then Tom regained his courage and hurled the door open, sword ready. The men made to follow, and North checked them with a shout. 'Wait. There may be others.'

'Others,' Edward cried, and ran up the steps behind his father. Tom Warner knelt in the darkened room beyond, beside Mr Williams. But the young Welshman was dead, his face black and his body stiff.

It rained. It had rained, now, for nearly a week, and no English drizzle, this. It teemed down. They could see it moving along the river towards the ships, and the ships themselves swayed at their anchors under the impact of the rain. There was no wind.

The clouds seemed to have se
tt
led imme
that
ely above the village, or perhaps there was only one cloud, and this stretched forever, encompassing the entire continent, perhaps the entire world, se
tt
ing itself with the utmost determination to drown this upstart land. Certainly this was easy to imagine. The overgrown village street dissolved from soft earth into liquid mud beneath the pounding water. The very trees seemed to bend.

The Europeans bent too. The rain had refilled their water casks. There was relief. Now it sought to crush them. Their spirits still sagged beneath the shocking death of Mr Williams. It was the speed and the silence with which it had happened. Now they expected poisonous snakes under every root, posted a guard on the doors of every house all night to keep away intruders. They were afraid. The bushmaster had been nothing more than a symbol of the hell into which they had so hopefully sailed. They felt that the very jungle was dead, but a living dead, which sought only to bring them to a similar state. And the rain kept them pinned down, waiting, unable to get out and seek food, unable to plant their tobacco, unable to do more than survive, and that was becoming difficult.

‘It
will stop,' North said. No doubt he sought to convince himself, for he spoke in a low voice. 'By Christ, it was not raining when we came. It had not been raining for several days, then; the ground was dry.'

He stood in the doorway of the large building, the driest of the houses, the one taken for their own by the gentlemen. Here there were three separate rooms, and once they had cleared out the dust and weeds which in places threatened to come through the ro
tt
ing floorboards, it was quite habitable. Certainly there was no need for heat, for the very rain was warm, and it only seemed to make the atmosphere more oppressive. And they had enough to do, to repel those who would share the house with them. Tony and Benjamin and Dick and Edward were busy the whole day long, for if it was not columns of ants, large and voracious, sliding up the piles on which the house stood, seeking to consume any and everything that lay in their path, it was spiders, not so huge as those described by Raleigh, certainly, and apparently unable to jump, but none the less hairy, sinister looking things which lurked in dark corners. And there were other creatures, such as one which rose up on its legs and thrust a deadly sting forth to challenge the intruders and more, seemed to relish a
tt
acking the white men rather than scu
tt
le away into the corners. Dick rapidly fell foul of this one. He sought to pick it up and hurl it into the yard, and the scorpion had struck before dying. Dick lay in a corner, wrapped in two blankets, shivering and shuddering. His right hand was twice the size of his right foot.

The rain will stop,' Tom Warner agreed. 'For a season, and then it will start again. Walter Raleigh spoke nothing of this.'

North nodded. 'And yet, fools that we were, we wondered why all expeditions to the Guyanas are plagued with disaster. I feel besieged. We are besieged, Tom. The rain will keep us here to the of starvation. Tis no longer merely an inconvenience. Ashton tells me there is not a slice of ro
tt
en meat left aboard. And those fish they catch will not make up the difference. And without a wind, we have not even the power to leave.'

"You'd do that?' Tom demanded.
t
s this not your future? By God, man, if I am to believe your account of what you have invested here 'tis your past as well.'

'To redeem which I must drown on dry land?"

They spoke like this every time they came together. North lacked the determination which breeds success. But then, Edward wondered, did Father not merely possess the determination which arises from desperation? Failure here would affect him more than most, because he was too conscious that he was here as a failure, a penniless exile, who had deserted wife and family. He could only redeem all of those pawns by returning with a cargo of prime tobacco and the solid achievement of a successful venture behind him. There was none to be obtained in this rain.

Edward stood at the rear door of the house, and watched the trees. The rain fell like a screen between himself and the forest, but the green wall was not so very far away. He wondered why he thought that. To gain the forest, would that help the colony? The trees were not edible. They were merely filled with dangers. Sir Walter had outlined those clearly enough, and the bushmaster had given substance to his imagination.

Suddenly he wondered if he was going to die, here, at twelve years old. Dick was dying. Every hour he grew weaker, and his skin grew ho
tt
er. They had tried bleeding him, without success. Benjamin sat by him whenever he had the time. They had been friends. And Tony Hilton? Tony also knelt by the corner in which his mate lay, or stood in the doorways and glowered at the forest. Tony's high spirits had deserted him.

As had his own. To die, of starvation or snakebite, in the rain and the heat and the silence. He had now seen two men die and both violently. What would it be like, to die peacefully? Only it would not be peaceful, to die of starvation. The grinding wind-producing pain in his belly reminded him of that.

He stared at the forest, and the forest stared back. How despairing it was, to be this helpless. Be
tt
er, surely, to be doing. If this weather had greeted Lawrence Keymis when he had a
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empted to make his way inland, no blame could be a
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ached to him for a
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acking the first Spanish post he came across. But might it not be an idea, to tow the ships higher up the river? They might find a more hospitable clime. After all, there was the highway to Manaos and El Dorado. They were here because Harcourt had been here, and Harcourt had failed.

Still the forest stared at him, not moving its head. He realized that he had been gazing at the face for some minutes without even properly seeing it. A small face, thin, with prominent cheek and jaw bones, eyes hardly more than slits in the tight brown flesh. There, and then gone. It had seen the understanding in his own face.

"Wait,' Edward shouted, and ran down the steps. The rain leapt on him like a playful giant, seized his clothes and his head and reduced them to sopping rags in a ma
tt
er of seconds. Water splashed out of the ground and into his boots, and he staggered and almost fell. Behind him, someone shouted. But they would only be calling him back. They would not have seen the face, nor would they believe that he had not been deluded.

He reached the trees, hesitated for only a moment, and then burst into the semi-darkness of the forest. He tripped, and landed on his hands and knees, rose to his feet again, and ran on. 'Wait,' he shouted. 'Wait. I must speak with you. Please wait'

He panted, fell again, rose, staggered on, and fell again. He found himself on his hands and knees, while li
tt
le puddles of water rose around his thighs. Surprisingly, in here, the rain hardly seemed to reach him. It gathered on branches and in giant leaves above his head, and occasionally cascaded downwards. It crashed into the crowns fifty feet above him with a monotonous roar. But it no longer constantly pounded in his face and shoulders.

In here. Slowly he dragged himself to this feet. The trees stood all around him, shu
tt
ing out the light, shu
tt
ing out all conception of place and time. These trees had stood here since the creation of the world. They would stand here until God reclaimed His own. He was aware of a sense of helplessness which made nonsense of his earlier feelings. He turned, looked back the way he had come. But which way had he come? The trees waited, gathering round to regard this inquisitive stranger from another world. Now they had him here they surely would not let him go. But ... he had come that way, surely. He took a few steps, and checked. No, he recognized nothing of this. It looked the same as any other, but there was no imprint of his feet. As if his feet could leave any imprint on the endless soft packed fallen leaves. Be
tt
er to return to where he had first stopped. But where had he first stopped?

He panted, and looked up at the trees, and fought the wild desire to run and run and run until he dropped from exhaustion. The village, the river, could not be very far away. But for the teeming rain, in fact, he would be able to hear the rushing water and use it as a guide. Oh, God damn the teeming rain.

'Help,' he shouted. 'Please, I need help.'

He panted, and now fought against the tears which welled up behind his eyes, and gazed at the face again. Perhaps it was, after all, only a face, disembodied and floating around the jungle, the ghost of some long dead savage.

'Help,' he whispered. 'Will you help me?"

The leaves parted, slowly, and a man came out. Or perhaps he was a boy. He was no taller than Edward, certainly, although more heavily built. This was easy to see because he was naked. Nor did the rain seem to affect his skin; it struck the flesh and skidded away again, to leave him almost as dry as before. His hair was wet, however; it lay in a damp black mat on his head, uniformly cropped just below his ears. And he carried a long spear, made of thin wood, but none the less sharply pointed and quite capable, Edward did not doubt, of killing a man. His eyes were black, and suspicious. His body was somewhat ill-proportioned, seeming to be short in the legs; but the strength was there, even if his feet, splashed with mud and with spread toes, were ugly. Edward, now becoming preoccupied with his own growing manhood, was struck by the absence of body hair. But then, the li
tt
le man did not wear a beard, either.

'Will you help me?" Edward asked.
‘I
have lost my way.'

The man's eyes moved, very slightly, and then returned to Edward's face. Edward started to run, and checked himself. There were li
tt
le men all around him, all naked, all equipped with wooden spears. Yet he did not feel afraid. They mistrusted him, that was all. But already there was less mistrust than in the beginning. They could see that he was unarmed.

'Will you show me the way back to the village?' Edward asked. 'And come with me? The admiral would like to make your acquaintance.'

Someone spoke, and now Edward did turn. This man was no different in appearance to his companions except that he wore a thin band of rawhide around his forehead, holding his hair close to his head; stuck in the centre of the band was a single feather, very bright and long, although drooping sadly in the wet. But most surprising of all was his voice. It was deep, and gu
tt
ural, and it spoke a foreign tongue. But the language was Spanish. He was sure of that.

Edward shook his head.
‘I
do not understand you,' he said.
‘I
am English. Not Spanish. Enemy of the Spanish. English, If you will show me the way back to the village, my father will speak with you.' Father had learned Spanish during the Dutch wars.