Then Schreuder froze the fatal circle. He did not break away but simply clamped Vincent’s sword in a vice of steel. It was a display of such strength and control that even Cumbrae gaped with amazement.
For a moment the duellists remained unmoving, then slowly Schreuder began to force both points upward, until they were aimed skywards at full stretch of their arms. Vincent was helpless. He tried to hold the other blade but his arm began to shudder and his muscles quivered. He bit down on his own tongue with the effort until a spot of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
It could not last longer, and Llewellyn cried out in despair as he saw that the young man had reached the furthest limits of his strength and endurance. ‘Hold hard, Vincent!’ It was in vain. Vincent broke. He disengaged with his right arm at full reach above his head, and his chest wide open.
‘Ha!’ shouted Schreuder, and his thrust was a blur, fast as the release of a bolt from a crossbow. He drove in his point an inch below Vincent’s sternum, clear through his body and a foot out of his back. For a long moment Vincent froze like a figure carved from a block of marble. Then his legs melted under him and he toppled into the sand.
‘Murder!’ cried Llewellyn. He sprang into the square and knelt beside the dying youth. He took him in his arms, and looked up again at Schreuder. ‘Bloody murder!’ he cried again.
‘I must take that as a request.’ Cumbrae smiled and came up behind the kneeling man. ‘And I am happy to oblige you, cousin!’ he said, and brought the wheel-lock pistol out from behind his back. He thrust the muzzle into the back of Llewellyn’s head and pulled the trigger. There was a bright flare of sparks and then the pistol roared and leaped in the Buzzard’s fist. At such close range the load of lead pellets drove clean through Llewellyn’s skull and blew half of his face away in red tatters. He flopped forwards with Vincent’s body still in his arms.
The Buzzard looked around quickly, and saw that from the dark grove the red rocket was already soaring upwards, leaving a parabola of silver smoke arched against the fragile blue of the early-morning sky, the signal to Sam Bowles and his boarding party to storm the decks of the Golden Bough.
Meanwhile, above the beach, the gunners hidden among the trees were dragging away the branches that covered their culverins. The Buzzard had sited the battery himself and laid them to cover all the far side of the square where the seamen from the Golden Bough stood in a row four deep. The culverins enfiladed the group, and each was loaded with a full charge of grape shot.
Even though they were unaware of the hidden battery, the seamen from the Golden Bough were swiftly recovering from the shock of seeing their officers slaughtered before their horrified gaze. A hum of fury and wild cries of outrage went up from their midst, but there was no officer to give the order, and though they drew their cutlasses, yet instinctively they hesitated and hung back.
The Buzzard seized Colonel Schreuder’s free arm and grated in his ear. ‘Come on! Hurry! Clear the range.’ He dragged him from the roped ring.
‘By God, sir, you have murdered Llewellyn!’ Schreuder protested. He was stunned by the act. ‘He was unarmed! Defenceless!’
‘We will debate the niceties of it later,’ Cumbrae promised, and stuck out one booted foot, hooking Schreuder’s ankle at the same time shoving him forward. The two men sprawled headlong into the shallow trench in the sand that Cumbrae had dug specially for this purpose, just as the seamen from the Golden Bough burst through the ropes of the ring behind them.
‘What are you doing?’ Schreuder bellowed. ‘Release me at once.’
‘I am saving your life, you blethering idiot,’ Cumbrae shouted in his ear, and held his head down below the lip of the trench as the first salvo of grape shot thundered from out of the grove and swept the beach.
The Buzzard had calculated the range with care so that the pattern of shot spread to its most deadly arc. It caught the phalanx of sailors squarely, raked the sand of the beach into a blinding white storm, and went on to tear across the surface of the quiet lagoon waters like a gale. Most of the Golden Bough’s men were struck down instantly, but a few stayed on their feet, bewildered and stunned, staggering like drunkards from their wounds and from the turmoil of grape shot and the blast of disrupted air.
Cumbrae seized his claymore from the bottom of the pit, where he had buried it under a light coating of sand, and leaped to his feet. He rushed on these few survivors, the great sword gripped in both hands. He struck the head clean from the torso of the first man in his path, just as his own sailors came charging out of the gunsmoke, yelling like demons and brandishing their cutlasses.
They fell upon the decimated shore party and hacked them down, even when Cumbrae bellowed, ‘Enough! Give quarter to those who yield!’ They took no heed of his order, and swung the cutlasses until the thrown blood drops wet them to the elbows and speckled their grinning faces. Cumbrae had to lay about him with his fists and the flat of his sword.
‘Avast! We need men to sail the Golden Bough. Spare me a dozen, you bloody ruffians.’ They gave him less than he demanded. When the carnage was over there were only nine, trussed ankle and wrist and lying belly down in the sand like porkers in the marketplace.
‘This way!’ the Buzzard bellowed again, and led his crew sprinting down the beach to where the longboats from the Golden Bough were drawn up. They piled into them and seized the oars. With Cumbrae roaring in the bows like a wounded animal they pulled for the Golden Bough, hooked onto her sides and went swarming up onto her deck with cutlass bared and pistols cocked.
There, help was not needed. Sam Bowles’s men had taken the Golden Bough by surprise and storm. The deck was slippery with blood and corpses were strewn across it and huddled in the scuppers. Under the forecastle a small band of Llewellyn’s men were hanging on desperately, surrounded by Sam’s gang of boarders, but when they saw the Buzzard and his gang storm up onto the deck they threw down their cutlasses. Those few who could swim raced to the ship’s side and dived into the lagoon while the others fell to their knees and pleaded for quarter.
‘Spare them, Mr Bowles,’ Cumbrae shouted. ‘I need sailors!’ He did not wait to see the order obeyed but snatched a musket from the hands of the man beside him and ran to the rail. The escaping sailors were splashing their way towards the mangrove trees. He took careful aim at the head of one, whose pink scalp showed through his wet grey hair. It was a lucky shot, and the man threw up both hands and sank, leaving a pink stain on the surface. The men around Cumbrae hooted with glee and joined in the sport, calling their targets and laying wagers on their marksmanship. ‘Who’ll give me fives in shillings on that rogue with the blond pigtail?’ They shot the swimming men like wounded ducks.
Sam Bowles came grinning and bobbing to meet Cumbrae. ‘The ship is yours, your grace.’
‘Well done, Mr Bowles.’ Cumbrae gave him such a hearty blow of commendation as to knock him almost off his feet. ‘There will be some hiding below decks. Winkle them out! Try to take them alive. Put a boat in the water and drag those out also!’ He pointed at the few survivors still splashing and swimming towards the mangroves. ‘I am going down to Llewellyn’s cabin to find the ship’s papers. Call me when you have all the prisoners trussed up in the waist of the ship.’
He kicked open the locked door to Llewellyn’s cabin, and paused to survey the interior. It was beautifully appointed, the furniture carved and polished and the drapery of fine velvet.
In the writing desk he found the keys to the iron strong-box that was bolted to the deck below the comfortable bunk. As soon as he opened it he recognized the purse he had given Llewellyn. ‘I am much obliged to you, Christopher. You’ll not be needing this where you’re going,’ he murmured as he slipped it into his pocket. Under it was a second purse, which he carried to the desk. He spilled the golden coins out onto the tabletop. ‘Two hundred and sixteen pounds five shillings and twopence,’ he counted. ‘This will be the money for the running of the ship. Very parsimonious, but I am grateful for any cont
ribution.’
Then his eyes lit on a small wooden chest in the bottom of the box. He lifted it out and inspected the name carved into the lid. ‘The Hon. Vincent Winterton’. The chest was locked but it yielded readily to the blade of his dirk. He smiled as he saw what it contained, and let a handful of coins run through his fingers. ‘No doubt the gambling losses of the good Colonel Schreuder are in here but he need never be tempted to wager them again. I will take care of them for him.’
He poured a mug of French brandy from the captain’s stores and seated himself at the desk while he ran through the ship’s books and documents. The log-book would make interesting reading at a later date. He set it aside. He glanced through a letter of partnership agreement with Lord Winterton who, it seemed, owned the Golden Bough. ‘No longer, your lordship.’ He grinned. ‘I regret to inform you that she is all mine now.’
The cargo manifest was disappointing. The Golden Bough was carrying mostly cheap trade goods, knives and axes, cloth, beads and copper rings. However, there were also five hundred muskets and a goodly store of black-powder in her holds.
‘Och! So you were going to do a spot of gun smuggling. Shame on you, my dear Christopher.’ He tutted disapprovingly. ‘I’ll have to find something better to fill her holds on the return voyage,’ he promised himself, and took a pull at the brandy.
He went on sorting through the other documents. There was a second letter from Winterton, agreeing to the Golden Bough’s commission as a warship in the service of the Prester John, and a flowery letter of introduction to him signed by the Chancellor of England, the Earl of Clarendon, under the Great Seal, commending Christopher Llewellyn to the ruler of Ethiopia in the highest terms.
‘Ah! That is of more value. With some small alteration to the name, even I would fall for that!’ He folded it carefully and replaced the chest, the purses, the books and documents in the strong-box, and hung the key on a ribbon around his neck. While he finished the rest of the brandy he considered the courses of action that were now open to him.
This war in the Great Horn intrigued him. Soon the south-east trade winds would begin to blow across the Ocean of the Indies. On their benevolent wings the Great Mogul would be sending his dhows laden with troops and treasure from his empire on the mainland of India and Further India to his entrepôts on the African coast. There would also be the annual pilgrimage of the faithful of Islam taking advantage of the same fair wind to sail up the Arabian Sea on their journey to the birthplace of the Prophet of God. Potentates and princes, ministers of state and rich merchants from every corner of the Orient, they would carry with them such riches as he could only guess at, to lay as offerings in the holy mosques and temples of Mecca and Medina.
Cumbrae allowed himself a few minutes to dream of pigeon’s-blood rubies and cornflower sapphires the size of his fist, and elephant-loads of silver and gold bullion. ‘With the Gull and the Golden Bough sailing together, there ain’t no black heathen prince who will be able to deny me. I will fill my holds with the best of it. Franky Courtney’s miserly little treasure pales beside such abundance,’ he consoled himself. It still rankled sorely that he had not been able to find Franky’s hiding place, and he scowled. ‘When I sail from this lagoon, I will leave the bones of Jiri and those other lying blackamoors as signposts to mark my passing,’ he promised himself.
Sam Bowles interrupted his thoughts by sticking his head into the cabin. ‘Begging your pardon, your grace, we’ve rounded up all the prisoners. It was a clean sweep. Not one of them got away.’
The Buzzard heaved himself to his feet, glad to have a distraction from these niggling regrets. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got for me, then.’
The prisoners were bound and squatting in three files in the ship’s waist. ‘Forty-two hardened salt-water men,’ said Sam proudly, ‘sound in wind and limb.’
‘None of them wounded?’ the Buzzard asked incredulously.
Sam answered in a whisper, ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to be bothered to play nursemaid to such. We held their heads under water to help them on their way into the bosom of Jesus. For most of them it was a mercy.’
‘I’m amazed at your compassion, Mr Bowles,’ Cumbrae grunted, ‘but in future spare me such details. You know I’m a man of gentle persuasion.’ He put that matter out of his mind and contemplated his prisoners. Despite Sam’s assurance, many had been heavily beaten, their eyes were blackened and their lips cut and swollen. They hung their heads and none would look at him.
He walked slowly down the squatting ranks, now and then seizing a handful of hair and lifting the man’s face to study it. When he reached the end of the line he came back and addressed them jovially: ‘Hear me, my bully lads, I have a berth for all of you. Sail with me and you shall have a shilling a month and a fair share of the prize money and, as sure as my name is Angus Cochran, there’ll be sackloads of gold and silver to share.’
None replied, and he frowned. ‘Are you deaf or has the devil got your tongues? Who will sail with Cochran of Cumbrae?’ The silence hung heavily over the deck. He strode forward and picked out one of the most intelligent-looking of his prisoners. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘Davey Morgan.’
‘Will you sail with me, Davey?’
Slowly the man lifted his head and stared at the Buzzard. ‘I saw young Mr Winterton slaughtered and the captain shot down in cold blood on the beach. I’ll not sail with any murdering pirate.’
‘Pirate!’ the Buzzard screamed. ‘You dare to call me pirate, you lump of stinking offal? You were born to feed the seagulls, and that’s what you shall do!’ The great claymore rasped from its scabbard, and he swung it down to cleave Davey Morgan’s head, through the teeth as far as his shoulders. With the bloody sword in his hand he strode down the line of prisoners.
‘Is there another among you who would dare to call me pirate to my face?’ No man spoke out, and at last Cumbrae rounded on Sam Bowles. ‘Lock them all in the Golden Bough’s hold. Feed them on half a pint of water and a biscuit a day. Let them think about my offer more seriously. In a few days’ time I’ll speak to these lovelies again, and we shall see if they have better manners then.’
He took Sam aside and spoke in a quieter tone. ‘There is still some storm damage that needs repair.’ He pointed up at the rigging. ‘She’s your ship now, to sail and command. Make all good at once. I want to leave this godforsaken anchorage as soon as I can. Do you hear me, Captain Bowles?’
Sam Bowles’s face lit with pleasure at the title. ‘You can rely on me, your grace.’
Cumbrae strode to the entryport and slid down into one of the longboats. ‘Take me back to the beach, varlets.’ He jumped over the side before they touched the sand and waded knee-deep to the shore where Colonel Schreuder was waiting for him.
‘My lord, I must speak to you,’ he said, and the Buzzard smiled at him engagingly.
‘Your discourse always gives me pleasure, sir. Come with me. We can talk while I go about my affairs.’ He led the way across the beach, and into the grove.
‘Captain Llewellyn was—’ Schreuder began, but the Buzzard cut him off.
‘Llewellyn was a bloody pirate. I was defending myself from his treachery.’ He stopped abruptly and faced Schreuder, hauling up his sleeve to display the ridged purple scar that disfigured his shoulder. ‘Do you see that? That’s what I got for trusting Llewellyn once before. If I had not forestalled him, his desperadoes would have fallen on us and slaughtered us where we stood. I am sure that you understand and that you are grateful for my intervention. It could have been you going that way.’
He pointed at the group of his men who were staggering up from the beach, dragging the corpses of Llewellyn and Vincent Winterton by their legs. Llewellyn’s shattered head left a red drag mark through the sand.
Schreuder stared aghast at the burial party. He recognized in Cumbrae’s words both a warning and a threat. Beyond the first line of trees was a series of deep trenches that had been freshly dug all over the a
rea where once Sir Francis Courtney’s encampment had stood. His hut was gone but in its place was a pit twenty feet deep, its bottom filled with seepage of brackish lagoon water. There was another extensive excavation on the site of the old spice godown. It looked as though an army of miners had been at work among the trees. The Buzzard’s men dragged the corpses to the nearest of these pits and dumped them unceremoniously into it. The bodies slid down the steep side and splashed into the puddle at the bottom.
Schreuder looked troubled and uncertain. ‘I find it difficult to believe that Llewellyn was such a person.’ But Cumbrae would not let him finish.
‘By God, Schreuder, do you doubt my word? What of your assurance that you wanted to throw in your lot with me? If my actions offend you then it’s better that we part now. I will give you one of the pinnaces from the Golden Bough, and a crew of Llewellyn’s pirates to help you make your own way back to Good Hope. You can explain your fine scruples to Governor van de Velde. Is that more to your liking?’
‘No, sir, it is not,’ said Schreuder hurriedly. ‘You know I cannot return to Good Hope.’
‘Well, then, Colonel, are you still with me?’
Schreuder hesitated, watching the grisly labours of the burial teams. He knew that if he crossed Cumbrae he would probably end up in the pit with Llewellyn and the sailors from the Golden Bough. He was trapped.
‘I am still with you,’ he said at last.
The Buzzard nodded. ‘Here’s my hand on it, then.’ He thrust out his huge freckled fist covered with wiry ginger hair. Slowly Schreuder reached out and took it. Cumbrae could see in his eyes the realization dawning that from now onwards he would be beyond the pale and was content that he could trust Schreuder at last. By accepting and condoning the massacre of the officers and crew of the Golden Bough he had made himself a pirate and an outlaw. He was, in every sense, the Buzzard’s man.
‘Come along with me, sir. Let me show you what we have done here.’ Cumbrae changed the subject easily, and led Schreuder past the mass grave without another glance at the pile of corpses. ‘You see, I knew Francis Courtney well – we were like brothers. I am still certain that his fortune is hidden hereabouts. He has what he took from the Standvastigheid and that from the Heerlycke Nacht. By the blood of all the saints, there must be twenty thousand pounds buried somewhere under these sands.’