by Wilbur Smith
The hubladar gazed at Tom while he twirled his moustache thoughtfully. Then he barked an order in his own dialect, and Tom heard the scurry of feet outside.
Tom’s mind raced with possibilities. He had his own pistol, and a knife in his boot, but he had too much respect for the hubladar to think he could draw them quickly enough.
‘I need those cannon to rescue Mrs Hicks and my wife from the pirate Angria,’ he told Kyffen. ‘The man who captured them because you abandoned them, while other men were dying to save your precious factory here.’
Two sepoys came in from the corridor, each with a pair of manacles. There was nothing Tom could do. He put out his hands. ‘Is this how the East India Company shows its gratitude?’
Kyffen did not answer. As Tom was speaking, the hubladar suddenly switched the aim of his pistol from Tom to Kyffen. At the same time, the two sepoys stepped past Tom, seized Kyffen’s wrists and snapped the manacles on him, passing the chain through the arms of his chair.
‘This is mutiny!’ cried Kyffen. ‘When Governor Courtney hears of this—’
‘It will not change Guy’s opinion of me one jot,’ said Tom cheerfully. He pulled a handkerchief from Kyffen’s coat pocket, and stuffed it in his mouth to gag his complaints. Then he embraced the hubladar.
‘Thank you, old friend,’ he said, ‘though you should not have done that. They will hang you for mutiny.’
The hubladar grinned, untroubled by the prospect. ‘Is it true that Angria has captured Mrs Hicks?’
‘I am afraid so; and also my wife, Sarah. They are being held at the fortress of Tiracola.’
‘And you have a ship to carry the guns there?’
‘She is waiting in the bay.’
‘Then if you have space for another man aboard, I will join you.’
Tom clasped his hand. ‘Bless you.’ He looked down at Kyffen, squirming in his chair and struggling ineffectually against his bonds. ‘I am going to take my cannons,’ he told him. ‘And while we are about it, perhaps we will relieve the Company of some of its powder and shot.’
Kyffen raged and writhed. He tried to spit out the gag, but Tom pushed it firmly back in and bound it in place with Kyffen’s belt.
‘When we have finished, I will free you. But if you are thinking that I cannot remove those guns alone – even with the hubladar’s help – be warned. If you so much as touch one sepoy because you suspect him of aiding me, I will get to hear of it and I will avenge it. You remember how the Rani treated Mr Foy? That will be as nothing compared to the torments I will visit on you. Do you understand?’
Kyffen stopped struggling and he nodded hopelessly.
‘I will give your regards to Mrs Foy,’ Tom assured him.
Flame spat from the cannon’s mouth. Through a telescope, Tom watched the ball strike to the left of the castle gate. Another small shower of rubble trickled down from an area of wall that was already pitted and broken, speaking to the gunners’ impressive accuracy. Behind him, Tom heard Merridew exhorting the Maratha artillerymen to work faster, to the chant of, ‘Worm and sponge. Powder.’ He had already cut their reloading time from ten minutes to close to five, encouraging them with tales of the treasure to be had inside the pirates’ castle, if only they could get inside.
It had been five weeks since Shahuji’s army had arrived with the guns and powder that Tom had fetched from Brinjoan: five weeks trying to reduce those mighty walls. So many men had said the castle was impregnable, Tom had almost begun to believe it. But now, seeing it made real and with time to study its weaknesses, he had reason to hope.
True, any assault by sea would be sure to fail. There was no landing place at the foot of the sheer cliffs, save for a tiny jetty, and heavy floating booms had been strung across the little bay to the north where Angria kept his fleet anchored. Coral reefs ran far out to sea, showing above water at high tide, so that any ship which tried to bombard the castle would be in constant peril.
From the landward side, too, the defences were formidable. The promontory narrowed to a thin neck of land before the castle gate, making a tight approach which was well covered by falconets and other guns on the walls. Groves of prickly kalargi trees grew thick in front of the walls: not only would they impede attackers, but their springy branches would absorb much of the cannon shot. Iron spikes four feet long protruded from the gate, to counter the favourite Indian tactic of using elephants as battering rams.
But no attempt had been made to extend the defences further out. A low hill rose half a mile inland, offering a commanding field of fire over the fort. Angria had placed a small watchtower there, but that had mostly been to spy out ships at sea. Shahuji’s cavalry had easily overrun it, driving out the defenders and claiming the hilltop, where his men had now dug gun emplacements and erected the battery of the Kestrel’s nine-pounders. Now, they kept up a barrage day and night, opening the breach inch by inch.
Tom prayed it would be enough.
Down on the jetty that protruded from the promontory, fishermen unloaded the catch from their boats. The siege had allowed them to increase their prices, with eager buyers on both sides of the walls. Every morning, the boats clustered at the jetty like birds on a freshly planted field, while the pounding of the guns sounded like distant thunder.
It had become such a constant background chorus that Christopher, supervising the unloading, barely noticed it any more. Spray splashed his face as a wave crashed onto the rocks by the jetty. Out at sea, he saw the sail of a merchantman slowly beating up the coast. He felt a surge of frustration at its brazen freedom. The Marathas did not have the resources to blockade the castle by sea, but still Angria could not let his ships out: he needed their crews and their guns to defend the castle. So the fleet stayed anchored behind the boom, and the local merchants could conduct their trade without fear.
The only reason Christopher had come to Tiracola was the promise of riches. Now, with the fleet confined to its anchorage and no hope of plunder or prizes, he chafed at the enforced inactivity and poverty.
He knew he was not the only man who felt that way. Many of the pirates had started to complain, quietly at first but now ever more audibly. They knew the Marathas would not take the castle – it was impregnable, after all, and they could not be starved out while they could be resupplied by sea – but they did not like losing their livelihoods while the siege dragged on.
Christopher had decided to do something about it.
Most of the fishermen had cast off, heading back to their fishing grounds for another catch, which they would take to the Marathas in the evening. For them, war was merely a commercial opportunity. The barrels of fish had been loaded onto a crane, which hoisted them up the walls to the keep. Christopher lingered, chatting to the boatmen, while the pirates drifted back to their stations within the castle walls.
When they had gone, Christopher took one of the fishermen aside. He knew he could trust the man: for the past week, they had been running a scheme whereby Christopher let him overcharge for the fish, and the two of them shared the extra profits. Now, Christopher led him to a place at the foot of the cliff, where the breaking waves blotted out their conversation.
‘You will go to the Maratha camp later?’
The fisherman nodded.
‘I want you to take them a message from me.’
Christopher said what he had to say, and made the fisherman repeat it twice. He did not dare commit it to paper.
‘If you are caught, I will deny everything. If you betray me, I will find your family and I will gut them each in turn like one of your fish. Do you understand?’
The fisherman trembled. Christopher smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘If all goes well, we will share the profits, and you will never need to cast another net in your life.’
That night, Shahuji summoned Tom to his tent. It was a magnificent structure, as befitted a king, with many spacious rooms draped with silk hangings and filled with gold and mahogany furniture. Incense burners
smouldered in the corners to keep the stench of the camp from intruding. Inside, you could almost forget you were on campaign at all – except for the sound of the guns. Each time a cannon fired, the walls shivered, and gold plates and goblets rattled on their trays.
‘How is the siege progressing?’ asked the rajah.
‘We are widening the breach,’ Tom answered. ‘It is slow work – the walls are fifteen feet thick in places – but the gunners are breaking it down.’
‘Not fast enough,’ said Shahuji. ‘The powder and ammunition you fetched from Brinjoan is dwindling. My army are far from the mountains. Men who were eager to fight last week now grumble about missing their homes.’
‘They will stop complaining when they see the pirates’ treasure store,’ said Tom.
‘If it comes to that.’
Tom’s eyes narrowed. This was the fear he lived with every hour that the siege endured, that Shahuji would lose faith or interest – or that he would no longer trust Tom.
‘I hope you are not thinking of giving up the siege, your highness.’
Shahuji went over to a tray of dates. He popped one in his mouth, and dipped his fingers in a small silver bowl of water to wash them.
‘I have heard that in your country, battles are fought to the death,’ he said.
Tom thought of the battle of Blenheim, which had been fought a few years earlier between the armies of France, Britain and the Holy Roman Empire. According to the reports he had read and heard in Cape Town, the French had lost over thirty thousand men, more than half their army. He nodded.
‘In India, we are more civilized,’ said Shahuji. ‘Sophisticated, perhaps. As our great sage Kautilya said, “Intrigue is a better way to win battles than force.” Why beat down the door, if someone will open it to you from the inside?’
Tom started to understand where the conversation was going. ‘Do you think there is such a man in Tiracola?’
Shahuji nodded. ‘I have had a message.’
It had never been the Courtney way to profit from treachery. But Tom saw the sense of what he said. If the castle could be taken without a frontal assault, it would cost many fewer lives – and increase the chances of finding Agnes and Sarah unhurt.
‘Who is this man?’
‘A fisherman brought the message. He says the traitor is one of Angria’s lieutenants. A man who entered his service seeking riches, and now understands he can be richer still if he betrays his master.’
‘Can such a man be trusted?’
‘We will buy his trust.’ Shahuji took a small silk bag and tipped it out in his palm. A handful of cut diamonds glittered bright against his dark skin.
‘How is it to be arranged?’
‘He cannot escape the castle by land without being seen. But there is a water gate, down among the rocks, which Angria uses to bring in supplies. Tomorrow night, a fisherman will bring the traitor to a beach down the coast. You will go to meet him.’
‘And if it is a trap?’
Shahuji funnelled his fist and let the diamonds trickle back into the bag. ‘I am sure you will know what to do.’
The next night was calm and clear. A waning moon hung low in the sky, but the stars shone bright on the white sand and frothing waves. Tom hung back among the palms that fringed the beach, so as not to offer a target from the sea. He glanced up at the cliffs overlooking the little cove. He had stationed Francis and Merridew up there, armed with flintlocks so that the glow of matchlocks would not give expose them.
‘Do you think he will come?’ said Mohite, the hubladar, beside him. He had shed his East India Company uniform coat and replaced it with a traditional Indian dhoti. From somewhere in Shahuji’s armoury, he had acquired a heavy mace.
Something squeaked out to sea. Faint, so that the rush of surf almost drowned it, but Tom’s senses were sensitive to the least disturbance. He peered into the darkness, and saw a dim shape solid against the shifting sea. It was a small boat, one of the Indian mussoolas, so light and shallow that when it caught a wave the surf carried it almost clean onto the beach.
Two men leaped out and dragged it above the surf. One squatted down beside the boat and waited; the other strode confidently up towards the trees. He was tall for an Indian – almost as tall as Tom, in fact. By the starlight Tom could make out a full beard, a tightly wound turban, and a sword at his belt.
There was no reason Tom should ever have seen him before. Yet even in darkness, something familiar nagged at him. A shiver went down his spine – the same foreboding he had felt waiting for the tiger to emerge from the forest. He tried to see the man’s face, but it was hidden in shadow.
‘What is your name?’ growled Mohite.
‘Raudra.’
‘Ask him how he will open the gates,’ Tom said to Mohite.
Opposite him, Christopher was so surprised to hear Tom’s voice he almost answered in English. He caught himself, and pretended to listen while the hubladar translated. His mind raced. Against the trees, it was hard to make out the man clearly, yet he knew instinctively he recognized him. Was he someone from Bombay?
The others were waiting for his answer. ‘I cannot open the main gates. They are too well guarded, and you would be seen approaching.’
‘What, then?’ said Tom impatiently. ‘Why did you bring us here?’
Again, Christopher forced himself to wait until the hubladar had translated. It gave him time to study the Englishman more closely. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, a dark beard and a commanding, confident air. Not dissimilar to Christopher, in fact.
And with a sudden shock, he realized who the man was. Tom Weald, who had defeated him at Brinjoan; the man he had last seen across the smoking rubble of the fort. The man whose sword now hung from his belt, pressing against his thigh. How could he be here?
Weald was examining Christopher just as closely. Had he recognized him? Or was it simply the same nagging feeling of familiarity?
‘Angria keeps his ships in the cove to the north of the castle, protected by a wooden boom,’ Christopher said, forcing calm into his voice and looking down so that his face would be in shadow.
‘We know that.’
‘In three nights, when the moon is full dark, I will cut the boom. The ebbing tide will carry it away. You can enter the harbour in small boats, and cut out or burn his fleet. Without ships, he cannot protect his supply line. Better, if you can moor your own grabs or gallivats in the cove, their guns can cover the approach on land. Angria does not wish to die a martyr. If he thinks he cannot win, he will sue for peace. It is the Indian way.’
It was a long speech. When it was translated, Tom took a small pouch from his belt.
‘The Rajah Shahuji has given me these.’ He tipped out the bag in his hand, so that the cut diamonds sparkled in the starlight. Christopher stared at them hungrily.
‘If you do what you have said, Shahuji will see you are well rewarded,’ said Tom. ‘You—’
He broke off. As the pirate leaned in, drawn by the diamonds, the moon caught the hilt of his sword. White light gleamed off the polished stone set in the pommel, and the gold inlay traced down the scabbard – a pattern Tom had known all his life. It was the Neptune sword. The blue sapphire had turned jet black in the night, but he could see the cut of it. More, he knew the shape of that sword like the curve of Sarah’s hips; as well as the bulge of the grip, the taper of the blade apparent even through its scabbard. It was his Blue Sword.
He almost snatched it off the pirate. ‘Where did you get that sword?’ he cried.
Christopher straightened up, and placed his right hand on the hilt. ‘I won it in battle.’
But as he spoke, Tom suddenly knew why he seemed familiar. Everything was explained. This was the man he had seen at the Rani’s palace, who had salvaged his cannon and killed Captain Hicks. And now, by some devilry, he had appeared here at Tiracola … and he had the Neptune sword.
He stared at the sword. After his return to Brinjoan, he had given it up. H
e knew the hurt of the loss would never heal, but he had resigned himself to the fact he could never hope to get it back. And now here it was, within arm’s reach.
He knew he should keep silent, but he could not help himself.
‘That is my sword,’ he said fiercely. ‘It belonged to my father, my grandfather, and his grandfather before that.’
Christopher stared at him. ‘Your father?’ He spoke in English, though in their mutual shock neither man remarked on it. The implications were so immense they left him numb, unable to comprehend the situation.
Christopher collected himself. ‘The sword belongs to me,’ he said curtly, ‘and I would not give it up for all the diamonds in the Golconda mines.’
Tom’s mind raced. With the hubladar, he had the advantage of numbers. Better, Francis and Merridew were watching from the cliffs with their rifles sighted on the pirate. All he had to do was call out, and the pirate would die. The sword would be his again.
He opened his mouth to give the command. Deep inside, part of his soul screamed warnings this was a mistake, that the cost would be something he would regret all his life. But the sword was in front of him, the sapphire reflecting the stars in its facets, winking at him. He had lost it, and now providence had delivered it into his power once again. What sort of man could pass up such an opportunity? It was his birthright – and, more than that, the whole honour and legacy of the Courtneys was at stake.
The pirate knew something was wrong. He stepped back; his hand went to the hilt of the sword. It would not save him from the sharpshooters. Tom filled his lungs with the warm night air to shout the command to Francis and Merridew.
But the words would not come. Tom’s sense rebelled. If he killed the pirate, then the harbour boom would not be cut. The fort might not fall, and very probably Tom would never see Sarah and Agnes safe again.
And what was the honour of the Courtneys worth, if he would sacrifice the woman he loved most for it?
He closed his mouth, suddenly hardly able to swallow. Shame flooded through him, coupled with relief he had not given the signal to fire.
