Though they slept little that night, lying and listening to the hyena and the jackal howling and gibbering below the tree where the meat hung, the lions did not trouble them again. In the dawn they left the stockade to begin work once more on their preparations for the river crossing.
Ned Tyler finished the construction of the raft by lashing the poles together with rawhide rope.
‘’Tis a rickety vessel.’ Sukeena eyed it with obvious misgivings. ‘One of those great river dragons could overturn it with a flick of its tail.’
‘That is why Aboli has prepared his snares for them.’
They went back up the slope to where Althuda and Zwaantie were helping Aboli wrap the coiled green-wood circlets with a thick covering of half-putrid eland meat.
‘The crocodile cannot chew his food,’ Aboli explained to them as he worked. ‘Each of these lumps of meat is the right size for one of the monsters to swallow whole.’
When all the baits had been prepared, they carried them down to the water’s edge. As they approached the sandbank where the great saurians lay like stranded logs, they shouted clapped their hands and fired off the muskets, creating a commotion that alarmed even these huge beasts.
They raised their massive bulks on short stubby legs and lumbered to the shelter of their natural element, sliding into the deep green pools with mighty splashes and setting up waves that broke upon the far bank. As soon as the sandbank was clear, the men rushed out and placed the lumps of stinking meat along the water’s edge. Then they hurried back and climbed up to where the women waited on the safety of the high bluff above the river.
After a while, the eye knuckles of the crocodiles began to pop up everywhere over the surface of the pool, and then to move in slowly towards the sandbank.
‘They are cowardly, sneaking beasts,’ Aboli said, with hatred in his tone and revulsion in his expression, ‘but soon, when they smell the meat, their greed will overcome their fear.’
As he spoke one of the largest reptiles lifted itself out of the shallows at the edge and waddled cautiously out on to the sandbank, its massive crested tail ploughing a furrow behind it. Suddenly, with surprising speed and agility, it darted forward and seized one of the lumps of eland meat. It opened its jaws to their full stretch as it strained to swallow. From the bluff they watched in awe as the huge lump of meat slid down into its maw, bulging the soft white scales on the outside of its throat. It turned and rushed back into the pool, but immediately another of the scaly reptiles emerged and gobbled a bait. There followed a general mêlée of long slithering bodies, shining wet in the sunlight, that hissed and snapped and tumbled over each other as they fought for the meat.
Once every bait had been consumed, some crocodiles splashed back into the pool, but many settled down again in the sun-warmed sand from where they had been disturbed. Peace fell over the riverbank again, and the kingfishers darted and hovered over the green waters. A great grey hippopotamus thrust out his head on the far side of the pool and gave vent to a raucous grunt of laughter. His cows clustered around him, their backs like a pile of shiny black boulders.
‘Your plan has not worked,’ said Sabah in Dutch. ‘The crocodiles are unharmed and still ready to fall upon any of us who goes near the water.’
‘Be patient, Sabah,’ Aboli told him. ‘It will take a while for the juices of their stomach to eat through the rawhide. But when they do the sticks will spring open and the sharpened ends will pierce their guts and stab through their vitals.’
As he finished speaking, one of the largest reptiles, the first to take the bait, suddenly let out a thunderous roar and arched its back until the coxcombed tail flapped over its head. It roared again, and spun round to snap with mighty jaws at its own flank, its spiked yellow fangs tearing through the armoured scales, ripping out lumps of its own flesh.
‘See there!’ Aboli sprang to his feet and pointed. ‘The sharp end of the stake has cut right through his belly.’ Then they saw the fire-blackened point of sharpened green wood protruding a hand’s breadth through the scaly hide. As the bull crocodile writhed and hissed in his hideous death throes, a second reptile began to thrash about in gargantuan convulsions, and then another and another, until the pool was turned to white foam, and their terrible stricken cries and roars echoed along the bluffs of the river, startling the eagles and vultures from their nesting platforms high on the cliffs.
‘Bravely done, Aboli! You have cleared the way for us.’ Hal leaped to his feet.
‘Yes! We can cross now,’ Aboli agreed. ‘But be swift and do not linger in the water or near the edge for there may still be some of the ngwenya who have not felt the spikes in their bellies.’
They heeded his advice. Lifting the clumsy raft between them they rushed it down the bank, and as soon as it was afloat they flung aboard the baskets of provisions, the saddle-bags and the bags of gunpowder, then urged the two women and little Bobby onto the frail craft. The men were stripped to their petticoats, and swam the craft across the sluggish current. As soon as they reached the opposite bank they seized their possessions and scampered in haste up the rocky slope until they were well clear of the riverbank.
High above the water they could at last fall upon each other with laughter and congratulation. They camped there that night, and in the dawn Aboli asked Hal quietly, ‘How far now to Elephant Lagoon?’
Hal unrolled his chart and pointed out his estimate of their position. ‘Here, we are five leagues inland from the seashore and not more than fifty leagues from the lagoon. Unless there is another river as wide as this to bar our way, we should be there in five more days of hard marching.’
‘Then let us march hard,’ said Aboli, and roused the rest of the depleted band. At his urging, they took up their loads and, with the rays of the rising sun beating full into their faces, fell once more into the order of march that they had maintained through all the long journey.
The four longboats from the Golden Bough were crowded with seamen as they rowed ashore in that dark hour before the dawn. A sailor in the bow of each boat held high a lantern to light their way, and the reflections danced like fireflies on the calm black surface of the lagoon.
‘Llewellyn is bringing half his crew ashore with him!’ the Buzzard gloated, as he watched the little fleet head in towards the beach.
‘He suspects treachery,’ Sam Bowles laughed delightedly, ‘so he comes in force.’
‘What a churlish guest, to suspect us of villainy.’ The Buzzard shook his head sadly. ‘He deserves whatever Fate has in store for him.’
‘He has split his force. There are at least fifty men in those boats,’ Sam estimated. ‘He makes it easier for us. From here it should all be plane sailing and a following wind.’
‘Let us hope so, Mr Bowles,’ the Buzzard grunted. ‘I go now to meet our guests. Remember, the signal is a red Chinese rocket. Wait until you see it burn.’
‘Aye, Captain!’ Sam knuckled his forehead and slipped away into the shadows. Cumbrae strode down the sand to meet the leading boat. As it came in to the beach he could see in the lamplight that Llewellyn and Vincent Winterton were sitting together in the stern sheets. Vincent wore a dark woollen cloak against the dawn chill, but his head was bare. He had braided his hair into a thick pigtail down his back. He followed his captain ashore.
‘Good morrow, gentlemen,’ Cumbrae greeted them. ‘I commend you for your punctuality.’
Llewellyn nodded a greeting. ‘Mr Winterton is ready to begin.’
The Buzzard waggled his beard. ‘Colonel Schreuder is waiting. This way, if you please.’ They strode abreast along the beach, the seamen from the boats following in an orderly column. ‘It is unusual to have such a crowd of ruffians to witness an affair of honour,’ he remarked.
‘There are but a few conventions out here beyond the Line,’ Llewellyn retorted, ‘but one is to keep your back well covered.’
‘I take your point.’ Cumbrae chuckled. ‘But to demonstrate my good faith, I will not invite any of my o
wn lads to join us. I am unarmed.’ He showed his hands, then opened the front of his tunic to demonstrate the fact. Making a comforting lump in the small of his back, where it was tucked into his belt, was one of the new-fangled wheel-lock pistols, made by Fallon of Glasgow. It was a marvellous invention but prohibitively expensive, which was the main reason why it was not more widely employed. On pressing the trigger the spring-loaded wheel of the lock spun and the iron pyrites striker sent a shower of sparks into the pan to detonate the charge. The weapon had cost him well over twenty pounds but was worth the price for there was no burning match to betray its presence.
‘To demonstrate your own good faith, my dear Christopher, will you kindly keep your men together at your side of the square and under your direct control?’
A short way down the beach, they came to the area where the sand had been levelled and a square roped off. A water cask had been set up at each of the four corners. ‘Twenty paces each side,’ Cumbrae told Llewellyn. ‘Will that give your man enough searoom in which to work?’
Winterton surveyed the square then nodded briefly. ‘It will suit us well enough.’ Llewellyn spoke for him.
‘We will have some time to wait for the light to strengthen,’ Cumbrae said. ‘My cook has prepared a breakfast of hot biscuit and spiced wine. Will you partake?’
‘Thank you, my lord. A cup of wine would be welcome.’ A steward brought the steaming cups to them, and Cumbrae said, ‘If you will excuse me, I will attend my principal.’ He bowed and went up the path into the trees, to return minutes later leading Colonel Schreuder.
They stood together at the far side of the roped square, talking quietly. At last Cumbrae looked up at the sky, said something to Schreuder, then nodded and came to where Llewellyn and Vincent waited. ‘I think the light is good enough now. Do you gentlemen agree?’
‘We can begin.’ Llewellyn nodded stiffly.
‘My principal offers his weapon for your examination,’ Cumbrae said, and proffered the Neptune sword hilt first. Llewellyn took it and held the gold-inlaid blade up to the morning light.
‘A fancy piece of work,’ he murmured disparagingly. ‘These naked females would not be out of place in a whorehouse.’ He touched the gold engravings of sea nymphs. ‘But at least the point is not poisoned and the length matches that of my principal’s blade.’ He held the two swords side by side to compare them, and then passed Vincent’s sword to Cumbrae for inspection.
‘A fair match,’ he agreed, and passed it back.
‘Five-minute rounds and first blood?’ Llewellyn asked, drawing his gold timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat.
‘I am afraid we cannot agree to that.’ Cumbrae shook his head. ‘My man wishes to fight without pause until one of them cries for quarter or is dead.’
‘By God, sir!’ Llewellyn burst out. ‘Those rules are murderous.’
‘If your man pisses like a puppy, then he should not aspire to howl with the wolves.’ Cumbrae shrugged.
‘I agree!’ Vincent interjected. ‘We will fight to the death, if that’s the way the Dutchman wants it.’
‘That, sir, is exactly how he wants it,’ Cumbrae assured him. ‘We are ready to begin when you are. Will you give the signal, Captain Llewellyn?’
The Buzzard went back and, in a few terse sentences, explained the rules to Schreuder, who nodded and ducked under the rope of the barrier. He wore a thin shirt open at the throat so that it was clear that he wore no body armour beneath it. Traditionally, the brilliant white cotton would give his opponent a fair aiming mark, and show up the blood from a hit.
On the opposite side of the square Vincent loosened the clasp of his cloak and let it drop into the sand. He was dressed in a similar white shirt. With his sword in his hand, he vaulted lightly over the rope barrier and faced Schreuder across the swept beach sand. Both men began to limber up with a series of practice cuts and thrusts that made their blades sing and glitter in the early light.
‘Are you ready, Colonel Schreuder?’ After a few minutes, Llewellyn called from the side-line as he held on high a red silk scarf.
‘Ready!’
‘Are you ready, Mr Winterton?’
‘Ready!’
Llewellyn let the scarf drop, and a growl went up from the Gull’s seamen at the far side of the square. The two swordsmen circled each other, closing in cautiously with their blades extended and their points circling and dipping. Suddenly Vincent sprang forward, and feinted for Schreuder’s throat, but Schreuder met him easily and locked his blade. For a long moment they strained silently, staring into each other’s eyes. Perhaps Vincent saw death in the other man’s implacable gaze, and felt the steel in his wrist, for he broke first. As he recoiled Schreuder came after him with a series of lightning ripostes that made his blade glint and glitter like a sunbeam.
It was a dazzling display that drove Vincent, desperately parrying and retreating, against one of the water kegs that marked a corner of the square. Pinned there, he was at Schreuder’s mercy. Abruptly Schreuder broke off the assault, turned his back contemptuously on the younger man and strode back into the centre. There, he took up his guard again and, blade poised, waited for Vincent to engage him once more.
All the watchers, except Cumbrae, were stunned by the Dutchman’s virtuosity. Clearly Vincent Winterton was a swordsman of superior ability but he had been forced to call upon all his skill to survive that first blazing attack. In his heart Llewellyn knew that Vincent had survived not because of his skill but because Schreuder had wanted it that way. Already the young Englishman had been touched three times, two light cuts on the chest and another deeper wound on the upper left arm. His shirt was slashed in three irregular tears and was turning red and sodden as the wounds began to weep profusely.
Vincent glanced down at them, and his expression mirrored the despair he felt as he faced the knowledge that he was no match for the Dutchman. He lifted his head and looked across to where Schreuder waited for him, his stance classical and arrogant, his expression grave and intent as he studied his adversary over the weaving point of the Neptune sword.
Vincent straightened his spine and took his guard, trying to smile carelessly as he steeled himself to go forward to his certain death. The rough seamen who watched might have bayed and bellowed at the spectacle of a bull-baiting or a cockfight, but even they had fallen silent, awed by the terrible tragedy they saw unfolding. Llewellyn could not let it happen.
‘Hold hard!’ he cried, and vaulted over the rope. He strode between the two men, his right hand raised. ‘Colonel Schreuder, sir. You have given us every reason to admire your swordsmanship. You have drawn first blood. Will you not give us good reason to respect you by declaring that your honour is satisfied?’
‘Let the English coward apologize to me in front of all the present company, and then I will be satisfied,’ said Schreuder, and Llewellyn turned to appeal to Vincent. ‘Will you do what the colonel asks? Please, Vincent, for my sake and the trust I pledged to your father.’
Vincent’s face was deathly pale but the blood that stained his shirt was bright crimson, as full blown June roses on the bush. ‘Colonel Schreuder has this moment called me a coward. Forgive me, Captain, but you know I cannot accede to such conditions.’
Llewellyn looked sadly upon his young protégé.‘He intends to kill you, Vincent. It is such a shameful waste of a fine young life.’
‘And I intend to kill him.’ Vincent was able to smile now that it was decided. It was a gay, reckless smile. ‘Please stand aside, Captain.’ Hopelessly Llewellyn turned back to the sidelines.
‘On guard, sir!’ Vincent called, and charged with the white sand spurting from under his boots, thrust and parry for very life. The Neptune sword was an impenetrable wall of steel before him, meeting and turning his own blade with an ease that made all his bravest efforts seem those of a child. Schreuder’s grave expression never faltered, and when at last Vincent fell back, panting and gasping, sweat diluting his streaming blood to pink, he was wounded
twice more. There was black despair in his eyes.
Now, at last, the seamen from the Golden Bough had found their voices. ‘Quarter! You bloody murdering cheese-head!’ they howled, and ‘Fair shakes, man. Let the lad live!’
‘They’ll get no mercy from Colonel Cornelius,’ Cumbrae smiled grimly, ‘but the din they’re making will help Sam to do his job.’ He glanced across the lagoon to where the Golden Bough lay in the channel. Every man still aboard her was crowded along the near rail, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the duel. Even the lookout at her main top had trained his telescope on the beach. Not one was aware of the boats that were speeding out from among the mangroves on the far shore. He recognized Sam Bowles in the leading boat, as it raced in under the Golden Bough’s tumble home and was hidden from his view by the ship’s hull. Sweet Mary, Sam will take her without a shot fired! Cumbrae thought exultantly, and looked back at the arena.
‘You have had your turn, sir,’ said Schreuder quietly. ‘Now it is mine. On guard, if you please.’ With three swift strides he had covered the gap that separated them. The younger man met his first thrust, and then the second with a high parry and block, but the Neptune blade was swift and elusive as an enraged cobra. It seemed to mesmerize him with its deadly shining dance and, darting and striking, slowly forced him to yield ground. Each time he parried and retreated, he lost position and balance.
Then suddenly Schreuder executed a coup that few swordsmen would dare attempt outside the practice field. He caught up both blades in the classical prolonged engagement, swirling the two swords together so that the steel edges shrilled with a sound that grated across the nerve endings of the watchers. Once committed neither man dared break off the engagement, for to do so was to concede an opening. Around in a deadly glittering circle the two swords revolved. It became a trial of strength and endurance. Vincent’s arm turned leaden and the sweat dripped from his chin. His eyes were desperate and his wrist began to tremble and bend under the strain.