by Wilbur Smith
Francis jerked upright – too quick. Another bolt of pain shot through his head. He tried to get out of bed, but the agony was too great.
‘Tom Courtney will kill me if he finds me here,’ he gasped.
‘Tom Courtney has spared your life. Who do you think had us bind your wounds and treat you like the gentleman I doubt you are?’
‘Drink,’ said the woman. She pressed a cup of some foul-tasting concoction to his lips. Francis tasted it, gagged and pushed the cup aside. The scar-faced black man stepped to the bed. He pinched Francis’ nostrils to force him to open his mouth.
‘Miss Yasmini says you drink, so you drink!’ The woman tilted the cup between his lips, and Francis took the easy option, he drank. The effect was swift. The pain of his injuries abated miraculously, and was replaced by drowsiness. The bed was so soft. He closed his eyes.
Yasmini had cleaned his wounds; they were superficial. She had dressed them with ointment that she had prepared from wild herbs she collected with her own delicate hands. With Allah’s grace, they would heal cleanly.
‘Is he really Dorian and Tom’s nephew, I wonder?’ Yasmini asked.
‘If he is not then he has come a long way for a lie.’ Aboli shook his great shaven head. ‘I knew William Courtney from the day he was born. This boy is his spitting image. Also, there is this.’
He showed her the decoration that sat on a dresser: a golden lion with ruby eyes, holding the world between diamond-spangled heavens. ‘This belonged to Klebe’s father. The boy was wearing it beneath his shirt. It proves beyond a doubt that he is who he says.
‘But they say that Tom killed William, his brother. That is why he can never return to England. Tom never forgave himself for what happened with William. He will not make the same mistake with the son,’ said Aboli.
A knock sounded at the door. Tom peered in. ‘How is the patient?’
‘You did not manage to kill him,’ said Yasmini tartly. ‘If you can keep yourself from assaulting him again, he will live.’
Tom went to the bed and looked down at Francis who was sound asleep. He had his father Billy’s dense and coarse black hair, but his features were soft, almost girlishly pretty. Not at all like his father’s had been. Tom hoped that his nature was also different. Black Billy had been hard, domineering and cruel.
Tom counted back the years since he had last seen the squalling baby Francis on the stairs at High Weald. The boy must be seventeen by now – the same age Tom had been when he left home.
Or rather when he had been forced to leave home, and never return to High Weald or to England. A wanted man with his brother’s blood on his hands and on his conscience. He would never forget the dreadful moment when he had lifted the brim of the hat from the face of the man who had attacked him murderously in a dark alley in the dock area of the Thames, and whom he had been forced to kill in self-defence … and found that it was his own half-brother.
He picked up the decoration of the Order of St George, the gilded Lion cupping the world in his paws, and felt the weight of its magnificence. Though Tom had been dubbed a Nautonnier knight, he had never worn the decoration. William had seen to that.
‘Call me when he wakes,’ he told Aboli and Yasmini as he turned back to the door.
I could not save the father. Perhaps I can redeem myself with the son.
When Francis woke again, the woman had gone but the black man still guarded the door. He did not seem to have moved; Francis almost wondered if he might be carved from wood.
He sat up, tentatively, and found that if he moved slowly the pain was tolerable. He swung his legs out of the bed and stood, leaning on the wall for balance. Aboli did not try to stop him.
‘Yasmini’s medicine is working,’ he observed.
Francis stared at him, then at the small window. Was it big enough? He wore nothing but a borrowed nightshirt. He would look like a lunatic, running through Cape Town. Would he be arrested?
Aboli indicated the corner of the room, where a shirt and a pair of breeches sat folded over a chair.
‘If you wish to go, you had better get dressed.’
‘You will not stop me?’
Aboli stepped aside from the door. ‘You are safe, here. But if you are determined to leave …’
‘Safe?’ Francis echoed. ‘Tom Courtney killed my father.’ He had meant it to shock, but Aboli merely nodded. ‘You do not deny it?’
‘I knew your father from the day he was born,’ said Aboli in measured tones. ‘I can tell you from my heart, he was an evil man. A week before William died, Tom went to High Weald seeking help for their brother, and William attacked him. He would have killed Tom, but Tom was the better swordsman, and in the end it was he who had his sword at William’s throat. Yet when Tom tried to make the final blow, he could not do it. His hand would not obey him. A week later, in London, William ambushed Tom on the docks without provocation; he watched other men do his work, and when they failed he drew his pistol to shoot Tom dead himself. I was there. Tom would have died that instant if he had not put his sword through your father’s chest.’
He went on, making no allowances for the impact his words had on the boy. ‘And even then, I think if your father had shown his face – if Tom had known who he really was – Tom would not have been able to strike the blow.’
‘Why are you saying this?’ Francis demanded. ‘To turn me against my father?’
‘It is the truth,’ said Aboli. ‘You may accept it, or not: it is your choice. But if you cling to a lie, eventually it will destroy you.’ He gave a small bow. ‘I will leave you to dress.’
After he had gone, Francis sat a long time on the edge of the bed. The storms that had raged inside him had blown themselves out; he hardly knew who he was any more. He looked at the clothes on the chair, and was not sure he had the strength to put them on. Aboli’s words chased themselves around inside his head until he thought it would split open.
There were some things he could not remember from the night before, but one fact was branded in memory. Tom could have killed him, but he had not done so.
And that one fact had upended everything Francis believed in. He remembered what his mother had told him: Tom couldn’t have killed his brother in cold blood. He had not believed her. Now that he had been at Tom Courtney’s mercy, and lived, he had to consider that she could have been telling the truth.
Sitting there, he saw himself with new eyes. Consorting with thieves and prostitutes, trying to murder a member of his own family: what had he become? And in return, Tom Courtney had repaid him with mercy and kindness.
If you cling to a lie, eventually it will destroy you.
But did he have the strength to let it go?
When Francis came down, Tom was in the parlour sitting in his chair and staring at the Order of St George in his hands. Francis had dressed in a pair of Dorian’s breeches and a shirt of Tom’s which hung off him like a mainsail. He paused on the stairs; Tom thought he might flee at the very sight of him. But Francis knew he could not put this off. He swallowed his fear and continued down.
He reached the bottom of the stairs. The two men stared at each other, uncertain of what to say.
Tom broke the silence. ‘Sometimes it’s easier meeting a man with a sword in your hand,’ he said gruffly. ‘You don’t have to think what to say.’
Francis nodded. Then, all of a sudden, words burst out of him, ‘I am grateful to you for your care. I … You would have been within your rights to send me to the authorities. Or worse.’
‘I am glad we can meet on more tranquil terms,’ said Tom. He stared at the boy as if he might disappear into thin air. ‘Are you really Billy’s son?’
Francis straightened. ‘I am.’
‘Then how did you come to be in the Company gardens with scum like Jacob de Vries?’
‘We met in a tavern. A … a whore introduced us.’ Francis looked shamefaced. ‘Perhaps I should tell you the whole story.’
Tom called Dorian and Aboli to join the
m. Francis stared in wonder at the two men, Aboli with his scarified face and Dorian in his turban and Arab dress. His real shock came when he learned who Dorian was.
‘Is everything I was told a lie? I always believed you were dead.’
‘It is a long tale,’ said Dorian. ‘Which you shall hear in its turn. But first, I think you were about to tell my brother how you came to find us here.’
Sitting on the torn cushions, Francis told them everything. Tom paced; he cursed audibly when he heard how Sir Walter had ruined High Weald.
‘Poor Alice. Everything stems from the day I killed Billy.’
‘She would have been no happier with William,’ said Aboli. ‘You saw how he treated her. The way he beat her, he might have killed both her and Francis. No,’ he added, seeing Tom’s protest, ‘the boy must know the full truth about his father.’
‘I knew it already,’ said Francis. ‘Before I left, my mother told me about my father and the way he treated her. She said you acted to defend yourself.’ He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I did not believe her.’
‘Aye,’ said Tom, remembering that infernal night. ‘But it was not all Billy’s fault. I am certain he would not have known where to find us, had Lord Childs not arranged it.’
Francis’ face paled with shock. ‘Sir Nicholas Childs? Then I am doubly forsaken. It was he who sent me, who told me where I might find you. He promised me five thousand pounds if I killed you.’
‘For five thousand pounds, even I might have considered it,’ said Dorian, turning it into a little joke, but Tom continued seriously.
‘You would never have seen the money. Childs is a spider, spinning webs that reach to the furthest corners of the globe. He sits in his lair, his office in Leadenhall Street, and devours any man who threatens so much as a penny of his fortune. I had helped earn him twenty thousand pounds in prize money, yet he ordered me killed because I refused him a share of a tiny sloop. He is a monster.’
‘I see that now.’
‘Wiser men than you have been snared by his schemes. Even your father Billy, I think, did not realize he was but a pawn in Childs’ machinations. Billy wanted to kill me, but it was Childs who gave him the means. No doubt, had Billy succeeded, Childs would have found ways to use his guilt against him.’
Francis frowned. ‘Then what shall I do? Lord Childs gave me letters of introduction to my uncle Guy at the Company factory in Bombay, but—’ He broke off as he registered Tom’s reaction. ‘What is it?’
‘Guy is another story entirely.’
‘But Francis is a Courtney, and he should know the truth of our family,’ said Dorian gently. ‘It is these secrets and half-truths that drive us apart, and give men like Lord Childs the leverage to use us against each other.’
Before Tom could answer, there was a knock at the door. Ana Duarte came in.
‘Am I interrupting? I thought we had agreed to meet this morning to discuss my proposal further.’ And then, taking in the presence of Francis, she asked, ‘Who is this?’
A curious expression had come over her face. Her lips parted; she stared at Francis as if he were the only man in the room. Unconsciously, her hand moved to adjust the neckline of her dress.
Tom gathered his thoughts, and introduced them. ‘This is our nephew, Francis. He arrived from England, er, somewhat unexpectedly last night. Francis, this is Ana Duarte. She is a business partner of ours, or perhaps I am being premature.’
Francis nodded, as if in a dream – the most lucid dream he had ever experienced. Everything about Ana seemed to leap out at him with minute clarity. A lock of hair curling from behind her ear; the playful curve of her lips; the depths of her honey-brown eyes, locked on his.
The silence stretched out. Everyone waited for him to say something, but he did not trust his voice.
‘Francis took a blow to the head last night. Perhaps he has not quite recovered,’ said Tom.
Worry clouded Ana’s eyes. ‘Is he hurt? What happened?’
‘Tom had to knock him out to stop him trying to murder us,’ said Dorian.
Ana looked between the two brothers. She took in the cuts and contusions on their faces and arms. She had been aware of the smell of burned gunpowder in the air and the spot of blood on the carpet that all Mrs Lai’s exertions had not managed to remove.
‘I trust you have persuaded him to reconsider?’
Dorian peered at Francis. ‘I believe so. I think he was under a misapprehension.’
Francis stood carefully, not sure his legs would oblige. His mouth had gone dry.‘I was poorly advised.’
No, he realized, that was not right. He felt the others watching him, Ana most of all. It was time for him to take responsibility.
‘I listened to other men’s lies, and not to those I should have trusted. I am sorry for the danger I brought on your family, and if there is anything I can do to make amends I will do it gladly. I have learned my lesson.’
Tom put his arm around his shoulders. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Before you arrived last night, Miss Duarte had just suggested we become partners in business. You left England to seek your fortune: perhaps we can help you find it.’
Francis nodded, and followed the others to the dining room, holding the door for Ana.
He had entirely forgotten the conversation that had been interrupted by her arrival. Only much later did he think to wonder: why had Tom acted so strangely when he mentioned his uncle Guy?
In the brilliant sunshine the surface of the sea seemed so smooth and bright that it might have been carved from solid rock. Even where the wavelets met the land, they undulated but did not break. Just off the beach two East Indiamen swung lazily on their anchors.
In the estuary, a ring of low-lying islets clustered around a marshy basin. Stone built forts crowned every hilltop. The tiered towers and multiple eaves of a great pagoda rose from a grove of ancient twisted Banyan trees. Across a narrow channel, barely wider than a musket shot, lay the shores of the great Indian subcontinent.
Christopher Courtney heard the fort gun boom out the noon hour. He wiped his face, sweating in his best coat and heavy breeches. All the merchants in Bombay concluded their business in the early morning before retreating to the relative cool of their houses. At this hour, he was the only man abroad.
‘Two monsoons are the age of a man,’ said an old Bombay proverb – to reach it Christopher had only to survive two years. For some men, that was optimistic. The foetid air rising off the salt marsh, coupled with the noxious stink of the rotted fish the natives used to manure their coconut palms, claimed some arrivals even before they got off their ships. The rest stayed indoors as much as they could, counting their profits and the days until they could escape to England.
Christopher had now survived fifteen monsoons – his whole life, leaving aside three years spent in Zanzibar. Indeed, while other men wilted and died, he had flourished: tall and lean, with a firm jaw and deep brown eyes – not a bit like his father, men said approvingly, though never in his father’s presence.
Despite the heat, he was shivering. A slouching sentry let him through the gate, and across the courtyard to the Governor’s house. It was a relic from the time when the Portuguese had owned the islands: an imposing three-storey building with a Portuguese crest still carved above the door. It towered over the walls of the fort, which had been built around it when the English took over the island.
Even though it was his home, Christopher’s breath quickened with anxiety as he entered. He climbed the stairs, and knocked timidly on the stout teak doors that guarded the Governor’s office.
‘Enter,’ barked the familiar voice.
Guy Courtney sat at his desk, in front of three tall windows from which he could look down on every ship anchored in the harbour. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk: letter books and consultation books, manifests and loading bills, all the ink and paper that drove the Company’s trade no less than the winds that sped her ships. On the wall to his left, Guy’s father Hal looked down f
rom an oil painting, his hand resting on the hilt of a great golden sword. A huge sapphire bulged from its pommel, painted with such lustre it seemed to glow off the canvas.
A black servant stood beside Guy, wafting him with a silver-handled peacock feather. Guy didn’t look up.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
Christopher clutched the brim of his hat. He took another deep breath. ‘I have come to ask your permission to marry, Father.’
Guy went still. ‘Marry?’ He repeated the word as if it stank of dung. ‘What in the world possessed you of this notion?’
‘I am of age.’
‘That hardly signifies. Who is the girl who has caught your foolish fancy?’
‘Ruth Reedy.’
‘Who?’
‘Corporal Reedy’s daughter. From the garrison.’
‘That wench? She’s little more than a punch-house doxy!’ Guy’s expression changed. He tipped back his head and laughed. ‘For a moment, I thought you were serious. I had heard reports you were seen together, but I assumed you were merely tupping her behind the stables, like a dozen other youngsters of your age are doing to her. Perhaps I gave you too much credit.’
‘I love her.’
Guy studied his son through half-closed eyes. The boy had always been headstrong – like his father. Quick witted and strong willed, he had all the makings of a fine merchant. So much potential: Guy had taken great pains in his education. He had beaten him blue, trying to thrash out the contrary elements in the boy’s nature, to make him fit for the future he alone could give him. And still the boy had not learned.
Perhaps kindness could succeed where force had failed. He softened his tone.
‘I know how it is to be young. When I was your age, and foolish, I loved a girl so hard I almost gave my life for her honour. It was only later I found she was a common whore, a bitch who’d give herself to anyone who had a few rupees.’
Even after so many years, the memory made him hot with anger. He forced himself to be calm. He had made her pay many times over, once she became his wife.
‘Your mistakes are not my concern, Father.’
