Birds of Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  As they descended, the features of the landscape below became more apparent. Hal could even recognize some of the creatures that moved upon it. The black mass of bovine animals surmounted by a golden haze of dust and a cloud of hovering tick birds, sparkling white in the sunlight, must be the wild buffalo that Aboli had spoken of. Nyati, he had called them, when he had warned Hal of their ferocity. There must be several hundred of these beasts in each of the three separate herds that he had under his eye.

  Beyond the nearest herd of buffalo was a small gathering of elephants. Hal remembered them well from his previous sightings long ago on the shores of the lagoon. But he had never before seen them in such numbers. At the very least there were twenty great grey cows each with a small calf, like a piglet, at her heels. Dotted upon the plain like hillocks of grey granite were three or four solitary bulls: he could barely credit the size of these patriarchs or the length and girth of their gleaming yellow ivory tusks.

  There were other creatures, not as large as the elephant bulls, but massive and grey none the less, which at first he took for elephant also, but as they descended towards the low ground he was able to make out the black horns, some as long as a man is tall, that decorated their great creased grey snouts. He remembered then what Sabah had told him of these savage beasts, one of which had speared and killed Johannes’ woman with its deadly horn. These ‘rhenosters’, which was Sabah’s name for them, seemed solitary in nature for they stood apart from others of the same kind, each in the shade of its own tree.

  As Hal strode along at the head of the tiny column, he heard the light tread of feet coming up behind him, footsteps that he had come to know and love so well. Sukeena had left her place at in the centre of the line, as she often did when she found some excuse to walk with him for a while.

  She slipped her hand into his and kept pace with him. ‘I did not want to go alone into this new land. I wanted to walk beside you,’ she said softly, then looked up at the sky. ‘See the way the wind veers into the south and the clouds crouch on the mountain tops like a pack of wild beasts in ambush? There is a storm coming.’

  Her warning proved timely. Hal was able to lead them to a cave in the mountainside to shelter before the storm struck. They lay up there for three long days and nights while the storm raged without, but when they emerged at last, the land was washed clean and the sky was bright and burning blue.

  Before the Golden Bough had made her offing from Good Hope and come onto her true course to round the Cape, Captain Christopher Llewellyn was already regretting having taken on board his paying passenger.

  He had found out soon enough that Colonel Cornelius Schreuder was a difficult man to like, arrogant, outspoken and highly opinionated. He held firm and unwavering views on every subject that was raised, and was never diffident in giving expression to these. ‘He picks up enemies as a dog picks up fleas,’ Llewellyn told his mate.

  The second day out from Table Bay, Llewellyn had invited Schreuder to dine with him and some of his officers in the stern cabin. He was a cultured man, and maintained a grand style even at sea. With the prize money that he had won in the recent Dutch war, he could afford to indulge his taste for fine things.

  The Golden Bough had cost almost two thousand pounds to build and launch, but she was probably the finest vessel of her class and burden afloat. Her culverins were newly cast and her sails were of the finest canvas. The captain’s quarters were fitted out with a taste and discrimination unparalleled in any navy, but her qualities as a fighting ship had not been sacrificed for luxury.

  During the voyage down the Atlantic, Llewellyn had found, to his delight, that her sea-keeping qualities were all he had hoped. On a broad reach, with her sails full and the wind free, her hull sliced through the water like a blade, and she could point so high into the wind that it made his heart sing to feel her deck heel under his feet.

  Most of his officers and petty-officers had served with him during the war and had proved their quality and courage, but he had on board one younger officer, the fourth son of George, Viscount Winterton.

  Lord Winterton was the Master Navigator of the Order, one of the richest and most powerful men in England. He owned a fleet of privateers and trading ships. The Honourable Vincent Winterton was on his first privateering voyage, placed by his father under Llewellyn’s tutelage. He was a comely youth, not yet twenty years of age but well educated, with a frank and winning manner that made him popular with both the seamen and his brother officers alike. He was one of the other guests at Llewellyn’s dinner table that second night out from Good Hope.

  The dinner started out gay and lively, for all the Englishmen were merry, with a fine ship under them and the promise of glory and gold ahead. Schreuder, however, was aloof and gloomy. With the second glass of wine warming them all, Llewellyn called across the cabin, ‘Vincent, my lad, will you not give us a tune?’

  ‘Could you bear to listen, yet again, to my caterwauling, sir?’ The young man laughed modestly, but the rest of the company urged him on. ‘Come on, Vinny! Sing for us, man!’

  Vincent Winterton stood up and went to the small clavichord that was fastened with heavy brass screws to one of the main frames of the ship. He sat down, tossed back his long thick curling locks and struck a soft, silvery chord from the keyboard. ‘What would you have me sing?’

  ‘“Greensleeves”!’ suggested someone, but Vincent pulled a face. ‘You’ve heard that a hundred times and more since we sailed from home.’

  ‘“Mother Mine”!’ cried another. This time Vincent nodded, threw back his head and sang in a strong, true voice that transformed the mawkish lyrics and brought tears to the eyes of many of the company as they tapped their feet in time to the song.

  Schreuder had taken an immediate and unreasoned dislike to the attractive youth, so comely and popular with his peers, so sure of himself and serene in his high rank and privileged birth. Schreuder, in comparison, felt himself ageing and overlooked. He had never attracted the natural admiration and affection of those about him, as this young man so obviously did.

  He sat stiffly in a corner, ignored by these men who, not so long ago, had been his deadly enemies, and who, he knew, despised him as a dull foreigner and a foot soldier, not one of their élite brotherhood of the ocean. He found his dislike turning to active hatred of the young man, whose fine features were clear and unlined and whose voice had the timbre and tonal colour of a temple bell.

  When the song ended, there was a moment of silence, attentive and awed. Then they all burst out clapping and applauding. ‘Oh, well done, lad!’ and ‘Bravo, Vinny!’ Schreuder felt his irritation become unbearable.

  The applause went on too long for the liking of the singer, and Vincent rose from the clavichord with a deprecating wave of the hand that begged them to desist.

  In the silence that followed, Schreuder said, softly but distinctly, ‘Caterwauling? No, sir, that was an insult to the feline species.’

  There was a shocked silence in the small cabin. The young man flushed and his hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of the short-bladed dirk that he wore at his jewelled belt, but Llewellyn said sharply, ‘Vincent!’ and shook his head. Reluctantly he dropped his hand from the weapon and forced himself to smile and bow slightly. ‘You have a perceptive ear, sir. I commend your discerning taste.’

  He resumed his seat at the board and turned away from Schreuder to engage his neighbour in light-hearted repartee. The awkward moment passed, and the other guests relaxed, smiled and joined in the conversation, which pointedly excluded the Colonel.

  Llewellyn’s cook had come with him from home, and the ship had been provisioned at Good Hope with fresh meat and vegetables. The meal was as good as any that might be served in the coffee shops and ale-houses of Fleet Street, the conversation as pleasing and the banter nimble and amusing, larded with clever puns, double meanings and fashionable slang. Most of this was above Schreuder’s grasp of the language and his resentment built up like the brewing of a tropic
al typhoon.

  He made one contribution to the conversation, a stinging reference to the Dutch victory in the Thames River and the capture of the Royal Charles, the pride of the English navy and the namesake of their beloved sovereign. The conversation froze into silence once more, and the company fixed him with chilly scrutiny, before continuing their conversation as though he had not spoken.

  Schreuder consoled himself with the claret, and when the bottle in front of him was exhausted, he reached down the table for a flagon of brandy. His head for liquor was as adamantine as his pride, but today it seemed only to make him more truculent and angry. By the end of the meal he was spoiling for trouble, and prospecting for some way in which to ease the terrible sense of rejection and hopelessness that overpowered him.

  At last Llewellyn stood up to propose the loyal toast. ‘Here’s health and a long life to the Black Boy!’ Everyone rose enthusiastically to their feet, stooping under the low deck timbers overhead, but Schreuder stayed seated.

  Llewellyn knocked on the table. ‘If you please, Colonel, come to your feet. We are drinking the health of the King of England.’

  ‘I am no longer thirsty, thank you, Captain.’ Schreuder folded his arms.

  The men growled, and one said loudly, ‘Let me at him, Captain.’

  ‘Colonel Schreuder is a guest aboard this ship,’ Llewellyn said ominously, ‘and none of you will offer him any discourtesy, no matter if he behaves like a pig himself and transgresses all the conventions of decent society.’ Then he turned back to Schreuder. ‘Colonel, I am asking you for the last time to join the loyal toast. If you do not, we are still within easy range of Good Hope. I will give the orders immediately for this ship to go about and sail back to Table Bay. There I will return your fare money to you, and have you deposited on the beach like a bucketful of kitchen slops.’

  Schreuder sobered instantly. This was a threat he had not anticipated. He had hoped to provoke one of these English oafs into a duel. He would then have given them a display of swordsmanship that would have opened their cold-fish eyes and wiped those superior smirks from their faces, but the thought of being taken back to the scene of his crime and delivered into the vengeful hands of Governor van de Velde made his lips go numb and his fingers tingle with dread. He rose slowly to his feet with his glass in his hand. Llewellyn relaxed slightly, they all drank the toast and sat down again in a hubbub of laughter and talk.

  ‘Does anybody fancy a few throws of the dice?’ Vincent Winterton suggested, and there was general agreement.

  ‘But not if you wish to play for shilling stakes again,’ one of the older officers demurred. ‘Last time I lost almost twenty pounds, all the prize money I won when we captured the Buurman.’

  ‘Farthing stakes and a shilling limit,’ another suggested, and they nodded and felt for their purses.

  ‘Mr Winterton, sir,’ Schreuder broke in, ‘I will oblige you with whatever stakes your stomach will hold and not puke up again.’ He was pale and sweat sheened his forehead, but that was the only visible effect the liquor had upon him.

  Once again a silence fell on the table as Schreuder groped under his tunic and brought out a pigskin purse. He dropped it nonchalantly on the table and it clinked with the unmistakable music of gold. Every man at the table stiffened.

  ‘We play in sport and in good fellowship here,’ Llewellyn growled.

  But Vincent Winterton said lightly, ‘How much is in that purse, Colonel?’

  Schreuder loosened the drawstring and, with a flourish, poured the coins into a heavy heap in the centre of the table where they sparkled in the lamplight. Triumphantly he looked around the circle of their faces.

  They will not take me so lightly now! he thought, but aloud he said, ‘Twenty thousand Dutch guilders. That is over two hundred of your English pounds.’ It was his entire fortune, but there was a reckless, self-destructive pounding in his heart. He found himself driven on to folly as though he might wipe away the guilt of his terrible murder with gold.

  The company was silenced by the size of his purse. It was an enormous sum, more than most of these officers might expect to accumulate in a lifetime of dangerous endeavour.

  Vincent Winterton smiled graciously. ‘I see you are indeed a sportsman, sir.’

  ‘Ah! So!’ Schreuder smiled coldly. ‘The stakes are too high, are they?’ And he swept the golden coins back into his purse and made as if to rise from the table.

  ‘Hold hard, Colonel.’ Vincent stopped him, and Schreuder sank back into his seat. ‘I came unprepared, but if you will afford me a few minutes of your time?’ He rose, bowed and left the cabin. They all sat in silence until he returned and placed a small teak chest in front of him on the table.

  ‘Three hundred, was it?’ He began to count out the coins from the chest. They made a splendid profusion in the centre of the table.

  ‘Will you be kind enough to hold the stakes, Captain?’ Vincent asked politely. ‘That is, if the colonel agrees?’

  ‘I have no objection.’ Schreuder nodded stiffly and passed his purse to Llewellyn. Inwardly the first regrets were assailing him. He had not expected any of them to take up his challenge. A loss of such magnitude must beggar most men, as indeed it would beggar him.

  Llewellyn received both purses, and placed them before him. Then Vincent took up the leather dice cup and passed it across to Schreuder. ‘We usually play with these, sir,’ Vincent said easily. ‘Would you care to examine them? If they are not to your liking, perhaps we may be able to find others that suit you better.’

  Schreuder shook the dice out of the cup and rolled them across the table. Then he picked up each ivory cube and held it to the lamplight. ‘I can see no blemish,’ he said, and replaced them in the cup. ‘It remains only to agree on the game. Will it be Hazard?’

  ‘English Hazard,’ Vincent agreed. ‘What else?’

  ‘What limit on each coup?’ Schreuder wanted to know. ‘Will it be a pound or five?’

  ‘A single coup only,’ said Vincent. ‘The shooter to be decided by high dice, and then two hundred pounds on his Hazard.’

  Schreuder was stunned by the proposal. He had expected to make his wagers in small increments, which would allow him the possibility of withdrawing with some semblance of grace if the run of the dice turned against him. He had never heard of such an immense sum staked on a single throw of the dice.

  One of Vincent’s friends chortled delightedly. ‘By God’s truth, Vinny! That will show up the colour of the cheese-head’s liver.’

  Schreuder glared at him, but he knew he was trapped. For a moment longer he sought some escape, but Vincent murmured, ‘I do hope I have not embarrassed you, Colonel. I mistook you for a sport. Would you rather call off the whole affair?’

  ‘I assure you,’ he said coldly, ‘that it suits me very well. One hazard for two hundred pounds. I agree.’

  Llewellyn placed one of the dice in the cup and passed it to Schreuder. ‘One die to decide the shooter. High shoots. Is that your agreement, gentlemen?’ Both men nodded.

  Schreuder rolled the single die, ‘Three!’ said Llewellyn, and replaced it in the leather cup.

  ‘Your throw, Mr Winterton.’ He placed the cup in front of Vincent, who swept it up and threw in the same motion.

  ‘Five!’ said Llewellyn. ‘Mr Winterton is the shooter at one coup of English Hazard for a purse of two hundred pounds.’ This time he placed both dice in the cup. ‘The shooter will throw to decide the main point. If you please, Mr Winterton.’

  Vincent took up the cup and rolled it out. Llewellyn read the dice. ‘The Main is seven.’

  Schreuder’s soul quailed. Seven was the easiest Main to duplicate. Many combinations of the dice would yield it. The odds had swung against him, and this realization was reflected on the gloating face of every one of the watchers. If Vincent threw another seven or an eleven he would win, which was likely. If he threw the ‘crabs’ one and one or one and two, or if he threw twelve then he lost. Any other number would becom
e his Chance, and he would have to keep throwing until he repeated it or threw one of the losing combinations.

  Schreuder leaned back and folded his arms as though to defend himself from a brutal attack. Vincent threw.

  ‘Four!’ said Llewellyn. ‘The Chance is now four.’ There was a simultaneous release of breath from every person at the table except Vincent. He had given himself the most difficult Main to achieve. The odds had swung back overwhelmingly in Schreuder’s favour. Vincent must now throw a Chance four to win, or a Main seven to lose. Only two combinations could total four, whereas there were many others that would yield a losing seven.

  ‘You have my sympathy, sir.’ Schreuder smiled cruelly. ‘Four is the devil’s own number to make.’

  ‘The angels favour the virtuous.’ Vincent waved his hand lightly, and smiled. ‘Would you care to increase your stake. I will give you even money for another hundred pounds?’ It was a foolhardy offer, with the odds stacked heavily against him, but Schreuder had not another guilder to avail himself of it.

  He shook his head curtly. ‘I would not take advantage of a man who is on his knees.’

  ‘How gallant you are, Colonel,’ Vincent said, and threw again.

  ‘Ten!’ said Llewellyn. It was a neutral number.

  Vincent picked up the dice and rattled them in the cup and threw again.

  ‘Six!’ Another neutral number and, though Schreuder sat still as a corpse, his colour was waxen and he could feel droplets of sweat crawling through his chest hairs like slimy garden slugs.

  ‘This one is for all the pretty girls we left behind us,’ said Vincent and the dice clattered on the walnut tabletop as he threw again. For a long terrible moment no man moved or spoke. Then a howl went up from every English throat that must have alarmed the watch on the deck above and reached to the lookout at the top of the mainmast.

  ‘Mary and Joseph! Two pairs of titties! As sweet a little four as I have ever seen!’

  ‘Mr Winterton has thrown his Chance,’ intoned Llewellyn, and placed both heavy purses in front of him. ‘Mr Winterton wins.’ But his voice was almost drowned by the uproar of laughter and congratulation. It went on for several minutes while Schreuder sat immobile as a fallen forest log, his face grey and sweating.