The Tiger's Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Thunder!’ Tom and Francis rejoiced together.

  A fat raindrop stung the back of his hand. Then another, and another. Soon it was a deluge, the rain falling so hard it burst through the forest canopy and soaked the men beneath it. It fell so furiously that they could hardly breathe, and their vision was restricted to a dozen yards.

  ‘They cannot fight in this, and neither can we,’ Tom exulted. ‘The gun powder is turned to paste and the wet flint will not spark.’ He threw the useless firelock aside, gathered his men and ran with them, slipping and slithering through the mud, back towards the fort.

  But the Rani’s men had not given up the chase entirely. Whenever Tom paused to check his rear, he could make out their dim shapes through the rain.

  They reached the bridge they’d crossed that morning, by the well and the shrine to the monkey god. Since they had last seen the river, it had risen five feet or more. The chocolate-coloured water was almost touching the underside of the rickety bamboo span.

  Their pursuers were pressing them so hard that Tom almost led his band across the bridge without thinking. A few strides beyond, he realized the opportunity he was missing. He turned back and drew his sabre.

  The leading guards had almost reached the bridge when they saw Tom confronting them from the far end. They checked for a moment, suspecting some trap, then grinned when they saw how few men opposed them. They drew their side arms and charged forward.

  Tom didn’t move until they were more than half way across, then he raised his sabre and brought the blade down across one of the coir hawsers which anchored the bridge to the bank. It took him three blows, and then the hawser parted with a crack like a musket shot and the bridge skewed around. Five or six of the attackers were catapulted into the racing waters and were whipped away immediately. The survivors clung desperately to the side rope, with their feet dangling into the racing waters. Tom turned his attention to the remaining support rope. With another four hacking strokes the rope gave way. The remainder of the pursuers who were on the bridge were dumped into the river, and almost instantly they were drawn under by the weight of their armour.

  The guards on the far bank who had not yet reached the bridge saw their comrades drowned, and they drew back from the water’s edge in dismay and confusion.

  At that moment a rider on a black horse cantered out of the dense forest. Its rider reined in and stood up in his stirrups, gazing across the turbulent waters at Tom and his men on the opposite bank. Tom scowled as their eyes met. It was the man who had stolen his cannon and turned them upon him. The man who had decapitated Hicks with the steel snake.

  They stared at each other, and the river was not wide enough to contain or mitigate their mutual hatred. The rider swept his gaze across the turbulent waters, judging whether or not he should attempt the crossing. Then he walked his mount to the very brink of the racing waters.

  ‘You can never run far nor fast enough,’ he called. ‘I will come for you.’

  With surprise, Tom realized he had spoken in English. Not faltering, nor with any trace of an accent: the confident voice of a man born and bred in England.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted across the rushing water.

  The rider gave him no reply. Circling his horse, he galloped back into the darkness of the forest.

  Night hurried on before the storm. In the dark and the rain, they could hardly follow the road. More than once, they almost plunged into the rising backwaters. Tom didn’t dare stop. He knew, with cold certainty, that the man on the horse would not sleep nor rest in his pursuit.

  But they were travelling blind. Soon, he realized they had lost the path. Even then, he would not let them stop to rest, but urged them on through the forest. Francis eventually accosted Tom when he had paused to catch his breath.

  ‘We must stop. At this rate, we will find we have travelled in a great circle and come back right into the Rani’s jail.’

  Tom knew the boy was right, but he could not bring himself to accept defeat.

  ‘Just a few more minutes. I am sure—’ He paused. The rain and the wind had eased. Further off, he picked up a new sound. ‘Listen.’

  They both heard it: the low, rhythmic roar of the surf pounding a beach. ‘The ocean,’ they cried in unison.

  Hacking a path with his sabre, Tom followed the sound through the trees. The jungle fell away abruptly in front of him, and he was out in the open, running along a beach with soft sand under his feet.

  ‘Which way?’ he shouted at Francis, but before Francis could answer Tom saw the lights of the fort burning brightly ahead of them, and he realized that Kyffen had delivered his message and the garrison were expecting their arrival.

  Tom and Francis reached the gates together and hammered upon them. The gates creaked open and two old men stood before them, holding lanterns high and levelling muskets at them.

  ‘Where are all the women?’ Tom shouted at them, pushing the barrels of their muskets aside. ‘Where is my wife?’

  William Kyffen blundered through the forest, slipping and skidding in the mud. He had never been so afraid in all his life.

  This was not how he had envisaged his career developing. When he had donned the blue coat of an apprentice writer for the first time, he had imagined a glorious future as Consul General to the Orient, riding elephants into the great palace in Delhi, receiving gifts of jewels any one of which would have been worth more than a year of his father’s salary as a curate in Lincolnshire. Instead, he had found himself in this godforsaken outpost, answering the whims of a governor who treated him no better than the native servants.

  The storm increased in strength. Every snapping branch and falling nut sounded like a musket shot in his ears. By the time he reached Brinjoan, and saw the reassuring bulk of the fortress on the shore, he could hardly credit that he survived the ordeal.

  He stumbled to the gates. The whole settlement – all who remained – ran out to meet him. ‘Where are Tom and Francis? Where is Mr Foy and Captain Hicks?’

  ‘Mr Foy and Captain Hicks are dead. The men are massacred. I was the only one who escaped.’

  Agnes went deathly pale and swayed on her feet. Ana caught her before she fell.

  Mrs Foy took the news of her husband’s death with more stoicism. She did not faint or cry out; she did not even shed a tear.

  ‘Then we must make good our escape,’ she declared at once.

  Kyffen had bent over, trying to squeeze out the pain that wracked his side. ‘Mr Weald said we should prepare the fort for a siege.’

  ‘Tom is alive then?’ Ana asked. ‘But what of Francis?’

  ‘They were both alive when I left them.’

  ‘They will surely be dead by now,’ said Mrs Foy brusquely. ‘We cannot delay. Every minute we wait is a minute those terrible savages draw closer. Can you conceive what they will do with four gentlewomen such as ourselves?’

  Kyffen’s imagination baulked at the thought. Still, he hesitated. ‘Mr Weald said—’

  Mrs Foy’s face changed, as if the full import of his news had only just sunk in, and she suddenly dropped to her knees. She threw her arms around Mr Kyffen’s waist and stared up at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘My husband is lost,’ she wailed. ‘Dear Mr Kyffen, only you can save us now.’

  Kyffen looked down at the woman clinging to him, and blushed as he realized he was looking straight down the neck of her dress. Her breasts swelled against the fabric as she gasped in her shock.

  For the first time in his life, Kyffen felt the responsibility of having a lovely woman beseech him for anything, let alone her life. Mrs Foy needed his protection and, like the gallant knights of old, he would risk all to save her. She was a widow, now – an extremely wealthy widow – and she would need a man’s firm hand to guide her in her grief. In time, perhaps, her gratitude … but he would not allow himself to imagine such things.

  He put his hand on her shoulder, amazed by his own daring. ‘Do not worry,’ he said stoutly. ‘I will be your pro
tector from now onwards.’

  ‘We must flee,’ Mrs Foy said. ‘Prepare the boat.’

  ‘Mr Weald said—’

  ‘Mr Weald is not in charge here. You are.’ She stared up at him, eyes imploring, and despite everything he felt the thrill of command. ‘We rely on you to save us.’

  Kyffen turned to the assembled men and cleared his throat. ‘Prepare the boat for sea. Lay in stores, provisions, powder and shot. We must leave within the hour.’

  The old men and boys moved to his command. But at the far corner of the courtyard, Alf Wilson and the rest of Tom’s men stood aloof, with arms folded. Kyffen eyed them nervously. He did not like the look of the mate from the Kestrel. If there was one man in the settlement who might challenge his authority, it was him.

  ‘Jump to it,’ he barked. ‘The Rani’s men will have your guts for garters if they catch us here.’

  Ignoring him, Alf went to Agnes and Ana. ‘What would you have me do? Could Tom and Francis have survived?’

  Agnes could not look at him for weeping. Ana spoke with a confidence she did not feel. ‘Go with half your men to look for survivors. Take no risks: if you meet the Rani’s guards, fly at once. The rest of your men can help prepare the boat. Whether Tom and Francis are alive or no, I fear we will need it soon enough.’

  Ana led Agnes back to her house. She wondered how she would break the news to Sarah, still confined to her bed by her sickness. Could Francis and Tom really be dead? They had seemed so strong, so full of life, it was hard to believe.

  In the fort, Lydia Foy still knelt beside Kyffen, clinging to him and weeping. She opened one eye a little and saw that the men had gone about their tasks.

  ‘I hope you will not neglect to bring some of the goods from the godown.’

  Kyffen looked startled. ‘Is this the time to think of commerce?’

  ‘My dear, late husband gave his life for that commerce. It was all that mattered to him. It would blacken his memory to let his goods fall into the hands of his murderers.’

  She rose and wiped the tears from her face. She stood a good three inches taller than Kyffen. She looked down at him with wide blue eyes that made his head swim.

  ‘If we are to make good our escape, we must have the means to support ourselves when we reach safety. I do not intend to live out my dowager days in penury.’

  ‘It will not come to that, ma’am. I, personally, guarantee it.’

  She stroked his arm. ‘Dear Mr Kyffen, you are too kind. But we have no time to lose.’

  Kyffen ordered four of the stronger men to accompany her to the warehouse, and was gratified when they went without demur. He was unused to giving orders, less still to having them obeyed. Until that day, he had been the most junior factor in the settlement, clinging to the bottom rung of the Company ladder while other men trampled on him. Now, suddenly thrust into command, he found he rather enjoyed the sensation.

  Soon enough, the boat was filled with the pick of the cotton cloth, some of the worked goods that had been sent from England, and the best of the wine and brandy casks. Mrs Foy oversaw the loading with a keen eye, making sure the goods were well stowed. When she was satisfied, she found Kyffen again.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘There is something I must show you.’

  Kyffen followed her willingly into the Governor’s house. Despite their predicament, his imagination conjured all manner of intriguing possibilities – but she took him without ado into her late husband’s office.

  Kyffen hesitated at the doorway. Mr Foy might be dead, but the habits of deference died hard. Mrs Foy had no such scruples. She strode to the desk, gathered up a pile of leatherbound account books and deposited them in his arms.

  ‘Are you certain we need these?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘You can be sure that the East India Company will seek to blame us for what has transpired. We must ensure we have the evidence to refute their allegations.’

  Kyffen could only admire her mental fortitude, to think so clearly in this intolerable situation.

  ‘Also, there is this.’

  She unlocked a small cupboard in the corner, built of solid teak. As the heavy doors swung out, Kyffen saw it was a deceit: the cupboard opened into a small brick vault built into the wall. Four ironbound chests, each fastened with stout locks, stood stacked within.

  Mr Kyffen’s admiration for Mrs Foy swelled still further.

  ‘We will need men to carry those,’ he ventured.

  ‘Watch them carefully. Each of these chests contains a thousand pounds in gold.’

  Kyffen began to wonder if the catastrophe that had befallen them might not offer some benefits after all.

  ‘We must take to the boat,’ said Mrs Foy. ‘If we are not away soon, we will be trapped here.’

  By now, Kyffen had all but forgotten Tom’s instructions. Indeed, in his mind Tom was already dead, or at best a prisoner of the Rani. Still, he paused.

  ‘The boat is so heavily laden; if we all go aboard, we will sink her.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Foy. ‘You must decide who should crew in the boat. The rest will stay here and defend the fort as best they can, until we can bring relief.’

  By the time they had loaded the chests of gold into the gallivat, the boat rode so low in the water Kyffen wondered if anyone at all could go in her. All the men and women assembled on the sea front, already soaked by the rain. Alf Wilson and his party still had not returned.

  Ana stared at the vessel. ‘Is this your plan? To take what you can and abandon the rest, while Tom and Francis may still be out there?’

  ‘I have made my decision,’ said Kyffen, importantly. He felt the reassuring weight of the pistol in his belt, though the rain had probably rendered it useless. ‘We will send away the women and the youngest children. The others will stay here to defend the Company’s honour, and await any survivors.’

  ‘A wise plan,’ said Mrs Foy.

  ‘At least wait for Alf Wilson and his men, to see if they have any word of Tom and Francis,’ pleaded Ana.

  Kyffen glanced at Mrs Foy.

  ‘If they have not come back by now, they are surely dead,’ she pointed out. ‘And so will we be, if we do not escape now. Mr Kyffen is treating you more than generously, Miss Duarte. You arrived at our factory unwanted and uninvited; probably, you meant to injure our commerce. Yet now Mr Kyffen offers you an escape, and all the thanks he receives is carping and ingratitude.’

  Agnes stepped forward. ‘I will go. But Sarah is weak. I will need men to carry her aboard.’

  Ana grabbed her sleeve. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Surely you cannot go without the others.’

  ‘Mr Hicks is dead,’ said Agnes bitterly. ‘I have no reason to stay here.’

  ‘What about Tom and Francis?’

  Agnes stared at her dully. ‘Tom is not my husband. Most likely he is dead, too. I must care for my sister, Sarah.’

  Ana was about to argue, when she realized Mrs Foy was lingering behind Agnes, paying more attention than she pretended. Even now, Ana feared to give away Tom’s secret. With so much upheaval, she did not dare imagine where their fortunes might lead them next.

  So it was that Agnes boarded the lifeboat. Three men carried Sarah aboard and laid her in the bow, resting on bales of cloth with a spare sail tented above her. Of the others, Kyffen chose two boys and eight of the strongest and most likely looking to man the oars, including all the men who remained from the Kestrel’s crew. The most senior of them, a boatswain named Hale, looked questioningly at Ana.

  ‘We should be staying here waiting for the Captain and Mr Wilson,’ he protested.

  ‘Leave your two stoutest men here,’ Ana replied. ‘If Francis and Tom return, God willing, they will need all the help they can get. But if Tom were here, he would not want Sarah abandoned to the mercy of strangers.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I do not trust Mrs Foy and Mr Kyffen. At least if you and a few of the Kestrel’s crew are in the lifeboat, you can protect her.’

  ‘Would
we not be better keeping Mrs Courtney here?’

  ‘Agnes is her sister,’ said Ana. ‘By rights, she must decide what is best for Sarah. And perhaps she is right. If there is to be a siege, it will be no place for a woman in her condition.’

  ‘I thought she was getting better.’

  ‘Her sickness is passing. But I think that may only be a symptom of—’

  She broke off. The men in the lifeboat were already raising the sail, urged on by Lydia Foy.

  ‘Go. God speed, and take good care of Sarah.’

  Hale knuckled his forehead. ‘We’ll treat her like one of our own, miss.’ All the crew had served the Courtneys many years – some going back to Tom’s first voyage on the Seraph. They knew Sarah better than their own mothers. When they had wounds or injuries that needed tending; when they had trouble with their womenfolk ashore, or difficulties with money, it was always her they went to. They loved her, and would die to protect her. Even the few weeks that Ana had spent with the Courtneys had left her in no doubt of that.

  ‘Will you not join us?’ called Agnes.

  Ana shook her head. ‘I will wait for Francis.’

  ‘Leave her,’ said Mrs Foy. ‘If the silly thing cannot look to her own best interests, I most certainly will not.’

  The boat slipped away into the gathering gloom. Watching from the shore, Ana could hardly breathe for all the doubts and foreboding roiling inside her. She prayed she would see them safe again.

  She saw movement at the edge of the forest. Could the Rani’s men have arrived already?

  Alf Wilson and his men emerged from the forest. Covered in mud, hunched over with exhaustion, she barely recognized them.

  ‘No sign of Tom and Francis,’ he reported. ‘We went as far as we dared.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they aren’t alive.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’

  Alf Wilson peered out to sea and pursed his lips. He took in the situation.

  ‘Suppose we’re planning on staying here, then?’

  His calm acceptance was the most comforting thing Ana had heard all that terrible day. Again, she marvelled at the Courtneys, that they could surround themselves with such loyal men.