The Tiger's Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  But time was against Christopher. Down through the trap door, Tom heard shouts on the tower stairs. English voices – Francis, or Merridew, come to find him.

  ‘Enough of this madness,’ Tom called. ‘You cannot win.’

  Christopher gave him a look of pure malevolence. ‘Perhaps. But I may yet have my revenge.’

  ‘What will that gain you?’

  Christopher stared at him with blank incomprehension. Then, with a roar of rage, he lunged – straight at Tom’s heart. Tom brought down his sword, trying to deflect the stroke – but Christopher had moved so fast he was already inside Tom’s guard.

  The Neptune sword pierced Tom’s left shoulder. At the same time, Tom’s blow struck home. Not on Christopher’s blade, where he had aimed it, but on the wrist of the hand that held it. The heavy sword, with the full power of Tom’s shoulders behind it, cut through the sinews and the flesh, jointed the bones and came cleanly out the other side.

  Christopher screamed. The Neptune sword clattered to the ground, with Christopher’s hand still clasping it. Blood spewed from the severed stub of his forearm. Christopher stepped back, pressing his arm into his stomach in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

  Tom bled too, from his shoulder, but he knew the wound was not deep. He put one foot on the Neptune sword, lest even now Christopher try to reclaim it.

  ‘It is over,’ he said.

  Christopher stood on the edge of the tower. The height made him dizzy; loss of blood made him faint. Far below, he saw the green sea surging around the rocks.

  ‘Farewell, Father.’

  At the last moment, Tom saw what he intended. He reached out to grab him, heedless of his own safety. But he was too late. Christopher stepped out of reach, into the air, and fell. Looking down, Tom saw him drop for what seemed an eternity, until he vanished into the water with the merest splash of white.

  Tom stared down at the sea, waiting to see if Christopher would emerge. Could he have survived a fall from such a height? Or were there rocks below the surface that would have smashed his body to pulp?

  He shuddered at the thought. The heat of battle had chilled in his veins. He felt no victory – only an enormous sense of loss.

  My own son, he thought, and I could not save you. Just as I could not save Billy.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the gleam of the Neptune sword lying on the ground, with Christopher’s lifeless fingers still wrapped around the hilt. Tom prised them off one by one, amazed how even in death the sinews fought him. The dead flesh made him want to vomit, a physical rebuke for what he had done. With a stab of revulsion, he hurled it off the edge of the tower.

  He looked at the sword, gleaming in the morning, and almost threw it into the sea after Christopher. The glimmering sapphire seemed to mock him. Was it worth a man’s life? His son’s life?

  But a new day had dawned, and a new life had begun. Looking out at the horizon, Tom remembered words he had once spoken with Sarah. ‘What makes a man?’ he had wondered, and Sarah had replied: ‘From whatever he is made and whatever he learns, he will be his own man. And all you can do, Tom Courtney, is help him to find the right path to follow.’

  Christopher had chosen his path, just as Billy had so many years ago. A family was a living, untamed thing, and like all living things it could turn on itself with savage ferocity. All Tom had done was protect himself.

  He took the sword, and went down to his family.

  Sarah and Agnes were still in the dungeon. They were free, after so many months of captivity, but Agnes did not think it safe to move Sarah lest it bring on more bleeding. Tom was anxious to find them fresh air and clean lodgings, but he saw the wisdom of staying put. Until the last pirates were scoured out of the castle, the dungeon was as safe a place as any.

  Ana had joined them, unable to stay in Shahuji’s camp a moment longer after the battle was won. She had brought food, bound up Francis’ wounds, and given Sarah a salve to help heal her. Now she and Francis sat together, arms around each other, gazing in wonder at the child. From the looks on their faces, the strength of their embrace, Tom guessed it would not be long before he became a great uncle.

  Oblivious to the life and death around him, the baby slept, still connected by his umbilical cord to the bloody mass of the afterbirth lying on the ground beside Agnes.

  ‘Should we cut it?’ Tom asked, uncertainly.

  ‘We were waiting for you,’ said Agnes.

  Tom’s hand went to the Neptune sword on his belt. It felt almost like sacrilege to use that noble blade in the business of childbirth – and to bring a lethal weapon so close to an innocent babe.

  But the child was Tom’s heir. The sword was the legacy of the Courtneys, and one day the tiny infant would grow up to wield it himself. Tom wiped the Neptune blade until the gilded steel shone flawlessly. Agnes took the slimy cord in both hands, and indicated where he should cut. The sharp edge sliced through it. Tom tied off the end, and kissed the baby on the forehead. What did his future hold? What sort of a man would he grow up to be?

  All you can do is help him to find the right path to follow.

  ‘What shall we call him?’ he asked.

  Sarah looked at Agnes, her sister who had nursed her so tenderly through her long, terrible pregnancy, unflinching and uncomplaining despite all the sorrows she had suffered herself.

  ‘His name is James,’ she said. ‘In memory of Captain Hicks.’

  Tears sprang in Agnes’ eyes. Sarah leaned forward, to allow her sister a moment’s privacy. She looked at the baby, with the umbilical stump still protruding from his tiny belly.

  ‘Tom Courtney,’ she said sleepily. ‘Did you tie your son’s cord with a rigging knot?’

  The sentry at Bombay castle did not recognize the man who approached the gate. With his bald head, skin tanned deep brown, he might have been a high-caste Parsee, one of the agents who flocked to the Company’s trade. But he was dressed as a European, with a ruby red coat of fine cloth, and white breeches that gleamed brilliant in the noon sun. One hand seemed to be drawn up inside the sleeve of his shirt; the other was clenched in a fist.

  ‘His excellency the Governor is not receiving visitors,’ the sentry warned.

  ‘I have not come to see the Governor. I am here to visit my father.’

  The sentry gaped. His face went pale. ‘Master Christopher?’

  ‘Mister Courtney.’

  The sentry fumbled with the lock. ‘Of course, sir. Only we thought …’

  ‘You were wrong.’

  Christopher was almost unrecognizable from the callow youth who had left the fortress almost two years earlier – let alone the battered, broken man who had dragged himself one-handed out of Tiracola bay. He strode across the courtyard and mounted the steps of the Governor’s house with such confidence, the guard at the door only belatedly thought to challenge him. Ignoring him, and the shouts that followed, Christopher climbed the stairs to the top floor.

  ‘Christopher Courtney,’ he shouted to the uniformed guard outside Guy’s office. ‘Let me in to see my father, damn you, or I will have you tied to the triangle and flogged on the parade ground.’

  The door opened. Christopher went through, into the airy space of Guy’s office. Paint gleamed on the frames of freshly installed windows; the portrait of Sir Hal Courtney hung slightly askew, and there seemed to be a powder mark on the wainscoting where a pistol had been fired too close to it.

  Guy, hearing the noise from the corridor, had started to rise from his chair. He stared at Christopher open-mouthed. Ink dribbled unheeded from his pen and pooled on the correspondence book lying open before him.

  ‘Can it be …?’ he murmured to himself.

  He collected himself. His jaw went firm and his eyes hardened. He gave a cold smile.

  ‘The prodigal son returns. Hah! I suppose at least your mother will be pleased.’

  Christopher nodded.

  ‘Well?’ barked Guy. ‘What did you come back for? Expect me to kill the
fatted calf, do you?’

  ‘I do not need it. I am a rich man now.’

  Chistopher opened his fist, showing a handful of bright, sparkling diamonds. Guy glanced at them and snorted.

  ‘D’you mean to impress me with those gewgaws? You think you are rich? You do not know the meaning of wealth.’

  ‘I am rich enough to marry Ruth.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ruth. Corporal Reedy’s daughter.’

  Even then, it took a moment for Guy to understand. Then he tipped his head back, and laughed so heartily that the window panes shivered in their frames. ‘Ruth Reedy? All this time, and you still remember that little trollop?’

  ‘I am going to marry her.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  Christopher rattled the diamonds in his hand like dice. ‘I am a wealthy man, now. You cannot stop me.’

  ‘I would not dream of stopping you,’ said Guy ebulliently. ‘You have my blessing. Only—’ He broke off into laughter again. ‘Your sweetheart is already married.’

  Christopher felt as if the floor had dropped from under him. ‘What?’

  ‘She married not long after you ran off. A stevedore from the docks. She has a child now, too. I believe they are very happy. Though …’ He pointed to the diamonds in Christopher’s palm. ‘She may regret her haste when she hears what she has lost.’

  Christopher gazed at him in disbelief. This must be wrong. It was a lie, a cruel joke made purely from spite. Ruth would never have played him false.

  But Guy’s mirth was too real. Christopher looked into his father’s eyes, and saw nothing but a cold, plain truth. Guy had won again.

  In a fury, he hurled the diamonds across the room. They bounced and scattered off the walls, skittering across the polished floor into the farthest corners of the room. Even before they had come to rest, Christopher was making for the door. He could not breathe. He could not think. This moment of triumph he had anticipated so long, dashed from him once more by his father.

  ‘Wait.’

  For all Christopher had grown, Guy’s command cut through the years and stopped him as surely as when he had been a boy. He turned. Guy had come out from around his desk and crossed the room towards him. They stood at arm’s length, breathing hard, facing each other like a pair of boxers.

  ‘I know you were fond of the girl,’ said Guy. For once, he seemed to be trying to make himself agreeable. ‘But do not let her come between us again. You have sown your wild oats, and doubtless suffered a few scrapes along the way. Now come back to your family, where you belong.’

  ‘I did not return to be some bluecoat boy, fetching and carrying. I am better than that.’

  Guy studied him, and saw something that had not been there before: something adamant and fierce.

  ‘Perhaps you are,’ he mused. ‘And I will give you the chance to prove it. I have received disquieting news that the Governor of Madras may not be entirely reliable – that he may have helped one of my gravest enemies. You might be the man to take his place.’

  Christopher swallowed. The governorship of one of the Company’s three great Presidencies would be an unprecedented honour for a man his age – a tremendous act of faith on Guy’s part. Yet, he knew, it would irrevocably put him in Guy’s debt. Everything he had sought to avoid.

  ‘Can I rely on you?’ said Guy.

  The question hung between them. Christopher met his eyes, and thought of all the things he could say. I know why you treated me as you did. I know why you cannot love me. I tried to avenge the hurt your brother did you. Under his shirt cuff, the stump of his right arm throbbed with the memory.

  Guy was still awaiting his answer. His fingers played with the button on his coat; he puffed his cheeks and blew out the air. He was anxious, Christopher realized. It actually mattered to him what Christopher did.

  Tears pricked his eyes. He averted his face so Guy would not see. Guy thought he meant to leave. He reached out and grabbed Christopher’s sleeve, unbalancing him. Christopher stumbled; the two men collided.

  Christopher straightened. Father and son stood face to face, brown eyes and blue eyes inches apart.

  ‘Can I rely on you?’ Guy said again.

  There were so many things Christopher could say, so many answers he might give, but what did any of them signify?

  ‘Yes, Father,’ he said.

  He left Guy’s office in such a daze that he did not register the woman waiting in the parlour – or notice the way she started at the sight of him. She rose from her cushioned chair and hurried to him, surreptitiously adjusting the neckline of her dress.

  ‘Mr Courtney,’ she called.

  He squinted at her in surprise. A young woman, with a sharp face and full breasts pressing up out of her stays. For a moment, he did not see her clearly. With her hair tucked demurely under her bonnet, and the long sleeves of her dress hiding the shackle marks on her wrists, she was almost unrecognisable from the shameless lover he had known at Tiracola.

  Then with a rush of horror he knew who she was. For the second time that afternoon, the bottom seemed to drop out of his world. She knew his secret. She would tell his father, and all the prospects that had opened in Guy’s office would be snatched from him. Most likely, the Company would hang him for having consorted with Angria.

  ‘Are we acquainted?’ he said stiffly.

  She beamed at him. ‘I do not believe we have met – or else, so long ago I am sure you would not remember. My name is Lydia Foy.’

  Christopher waited. Perhaps she would be willing to let him buy her silence.

  ‘I heard a rumour you had returned to your father,’ she said. ‘I am certain the whole colony rejoices in your reconciliation.’

  He eyed her warily. What did she want? He touched his coat, feeling the knife he kept tucked inside.

  ‘Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more private.’

  ‘I am sure that will not be necessary,’ she said. ‘Neither of us has anything to hide. We are two respectable English people, are we not?’

  He marvelled that she could speak with such serene innocence, giving not the least hint of their history together. What was her game?

  ‘I heard you were captured by pirates,’ he tried cautiously.

  ‘I was freed.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible ordeal.’

  Her face darkened. ‘Frightful. Although …’ She gave a knowing smile. ‘Not without its excitements. But I am sure you would agree that we should not dwell on what is past – not when the future holds such promise.’

  Their eyes met – and a spark of understanding passed between them. Lydia reached forward and stroked his cheek.

  ‘I do hope we shall soon become better acquainted.’

  A hundred miles to the south, Tom stood on the quarterdeck of his new command and took in her unfamiliar lines. She was one of Angria’s fleet, a grab that had survived Francis’ night attack. Shahuji had given her to Tom, along with a crew of fishermen and Maratha volunteers, seasoned with the last survivors of the Kestrel’s crew. Merridew, promoted to Sailing Master, had declared himself satisfied.

  ‘They’ll get us to Cape Town,’ he said. ‘And wherever you choose to go after that.’

  Above the bay, Shahuji’s banner fluttered from the keep, announcing his victory to all passing ships. It had taken his men a week to root out all the treasure secreted about the castle, and some of it was still being loaded onto ox trains to be carried back to the palace at Satara. A goodly portion lay in the hold of Tom’s ship, for Shahuji had been extravagant in his gratitude.

  ‘It seems we have turned this voyage to our profit after all, Uncle,’ said Francis, arm in arm with Ana.

  ‘More than a profit,’ answered Tom. He stared down at the infant in Sarah’s arms, filled with such pride and love as he had never known. ‘What we have found is … priceless.’

  ‘You are sure we cannot persuade you to stay?’ asked Francis.

  He and Ana had chose
n to remain in India, to rebuild Ana’s family’s business as factors. They meant to make their home in Cochin, a Dutch settlement where the English East India Company had little business. Mohite would go with them.

  ‘Gather a good cargo for us,’ Tom encouraged him. ‘We will return after the next monsoon.’

  ‘As long as you steer well away from the pirates.’

  It was a real risk. Somehow, Angria had managed to escape the devastation of Tiracola. He had other forts and other ships; some day, he would no doubt venture out again to terrorize the Malabar coast. But for now, Tom hoped, he would remain ashore to lick his wounds.

  ‘Will you make for the Laquedivas islands?’ asked Ana. She looked well, her cheeks plump and her eyes bright. ‘She has been letting out the waists of her dresses,’ Sarah had confided to Tom two nights earlier. ‘I think by the time we return young baby James may have a cousin to play with.’ Tom thought he could already see the bump swelling in her belly.

  ‘It is too late for that plan,’ said Tom. ‘We were supposed to rendezvous a year ago. Dorian will not have waited for us. We will sail for Cape Town, and hope to find him there.’

  ‘God speed, Uncle,’ said Francis. ‘And thank you – for all you have done.’

  Tom tousled his hair. ‘A Courtney makes his own destiny.’

  They all embraced, and said their farewells, and then embraced again. A boat took Francis and Ana ashore, while the grab weighed anchor and nosed out to sea. Tom watched approvingly as the new topmen raced aloft to set the sails. They had the makings of a fine crew.

  Sarah came up beside him and linked her arm in his.

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Tom Courtney.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘You are wondering where you might take this ship and her crew, and what profit you might turn, once we have recovered from this voyage.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘When we have disposed of our cargo, and settled our debts, we should still have a tidy sum remaining. I thought we might buy land in Cape Town, build a house for our family.’

  ‘You were not meant to stay ashore,’ said Sarah. ‘After a few months, you would feel the call of the sea again.’