The longboat was close under the side of the Arcturus. Guy swivelled the murderer towards them and squinted over the crude notch-and-pin sights at Mansur. The flared muzzle of the gun seemed to leer at them obscenely.
“I gave you fair warning, you lecherous swine.” He thrust the burning match into the touch-hole.
“Down!” shouted Mansur, and flung himself on to the deck. His crew was slow to follow his example and the blast of goose-shot swept through them. In the screams of the wounded Mansur pulled himself upright again. His shirt was splashed by the brains of his coxswain, and three dead men lay piled against the boat’s side. Two others were clutching their wounds and struggling in puddles of their own blood. Seawater spurted in through the holes the goose-shot had torn in the planking.
Mansur rallied those of the crew who were unharmed. “Pull back for the Sprite!” and they flung themselves on the oars with a will. From the stern sheets Mansur shouted back at the figure that still clung to the handle of the smoking hand-cannon: “Rot your black soul, Guy Courtney. You bloody butcher! These were unarmed men on an errand of mercy.”
Mansur stormed back on to the deck of the Sprite. His face was white and set with rage. “Kumrah,” he snarled, “get our dead and wounded on board, then load all our guns with grape. I am going to give that murderous swine a taste of his own dung.”
Kumrah brought the Sprite round on to the port tack and at Mansur’s direction steered in to pass the stranded wreck of the Arcturus at a distance of a hundred paces, the optimum range in which the grape would wreak the most slaughter.
“Stand by to fire as you bear!” Mansur called to his gunners. “Sweep her deck clean. Kill them all. When you have done we will put fire into her and burn her down to the water-line.” He was still trembling with rage.
The crew of the Arcturus saw death coming down upon them, and scattered across the deck. Some ran below and others threw themselves over the side and thrashed around clumsily in the water. Only Captain Cornish and his master Sir Guy Courtney stood four-square and faced the Sprite’s gaping broadside.
Mansur felt a light touch on his arm and glanced down. Verity stood beside him. Her face was pale but expressionless. “This is murder,” she said.
“Your father is the murderer.”
“Yes. And he is my father. If you do this thing, you will never wash his blood from your conscience or from mine, not if we live a hundred years. This might be the one act that will destroy our love.”
Her words struck deep as a dagger. He looked up and saw the number-one gunner about to touch off his weapon, the smoking slow-match only inches from the flash-hole. “Hold your fire!” Mansur roared at him, and the man lifted his hand. All the gun captains turned to look back at Mansur. He took Verity by the hand and led her to the rail. He raised the speaking trumpet to his lips.
“Guy Courtney! You are saved only by the intervention of your daughter,” he called across.
“That treacherous bitch is no daughter of mine. She is naught but a common street whore.” Guy’s face was livid, the clotted blood upon it dark crimson in contrast. “Filth and filth have found their own level in the cesspool. Take her, and a black pox on both of you.”
With an effort that strained all his natural instincts, Mansur kept his temper from boiling over again. “I thank you, sir, for your daughter’s hand in marriage. A boon so graciously granted is one I will guard with my life.” Then he looked to Kumrah. “We will leave them here to rot. Lay the ship on a course for Sawda island.”
As they drew away Ruby Cornish touched his forehead in a salute, silently acknowledging his defeat and Mansur’s compassion in holding his fire.
They found the Revenge lying at anchor in the tiny bay, enclosed by the cliffs of Sawda island. This grim buttress of black rock reared three hundred feet sheer from the deep waters at the edge of the continental shelf, six miles off the coast of the Arabian peninsula. Kumrah had chosen it for good reasons. The island was uninhabited and isolated from the mainland, secure from casual discovery by an enemy. The bay was sheltered from the easterly gales. The enclosed waters were calm, and the narrow beach of black volcanic sand made a good platform on which to careen a ship’s hull. There was even a secret seep of sweet water from a cleft at the foot of the cliff.
As soon as they dropped anchor, Mansur had himself and Verity rowed across to the Revenge. Dorian was at the entry-port to welcome him aboard.
“Father, there is no call for me to present your niece Verity to you. You are well enough acquainted already.”
“My greetings and respect, Your Majesty.” Verity dropped him a curtsy.
“Now at last we are able to converse in English, and I can greet you as your uncle.” He embraced her. “Welcome to your family, Verity. I know there will be much opportunity for us to come to know each other better.”
“I hope so, Uncle. But I realize that now you and Mansur have much else to do.”
Standing on the open deck they swiftly devised a plan of action, and at once set it in motion. Mansur brought the Sprite alongside his father’s ship and they lashed the hulls together. Now all the pumps of both ships could be applied to pumping out the flooded hull. At the same time they dragged a sheet of the heaviest canvas under the Revenge’s hull. The pressure of the water held it firmly in place, plugging the underwater shot hole. With the inflow choked off they were able to dry out the hull within a few hours.
Then they hoisted all her heavy cargo out of her—cannon, powder and shot, spare canvas, masts and spars—and deck-loaded the Sprite. Relieved of her burden the Revenge floated high and light as a cork. With the boats they towed her on to the beach and, with the help of the tide, careened her over so that the shot damage was exposed. The carpenters and their mates fell to work.
It took two days and nights working by the light of the battle lanterns for them to complete the repairs. When they had finished, the replaced section of timber was stronger than the original. They took the opportunity to scrape the weed from her hull, recaulk her joints and renew the copper sheeting that kept the shipworm from attacking her underwater timber. When they floated her off she was tight and dry. They warped her out into the bay, reloaded her cargo and remounted her weapons. By evening they had topped up all the water-kegs of both ships from the spring, and were ready to sail. However, Dorian decreed that the crews had earned a respite of two days to celebrate the Islamic festival of Id, a joyous occasion when an animal is sacrificed and the flesh shared among the celebrants.
That evening they assembled on the beach, and Dorian killed one of the milk goats that were kept in a cage on board the Revenge. Its meagre flesh provided only a mouthful for each of them, but they supplemented it with fresh fish roasted on the coals while the musicians among the crews sang, danced and praised God for their escape from Muscat, and their victory over the Arcturus. Verity sat between Dorian and Mansur on silk prayer mats spread on the black sand.
Like most people who came to know Dorian, Verity couldn’t resist the warmth of his spirit, his quiet humour. She empathized with the tragic loss of his wife, and the sadness with which it had marked him.
He was equally taken by her lively intelligence, the courage she had demonstrated so amply, and her forthright, pleasing manner. Now, as he studied her in the firelight he thought, She has inherited all the virtues of both her parents—her mother’s beauty before it was marred by gluttony, Guy’s bright mind. She has been spared their failings—Caroline’s shallow, fatuous personality, and Guy’s avaricious and vicious instincts, his dearth of humanity. Then he put aside deep thoughts and picked up the light mood. They laughed and sang together, clapping and swaying in time to the music.
When at last the musicians faltered, Dorian dismissed them with thanks and a gold coin for their trouble. But the three were too elated for sleep. They were to sail on the morrow for Fort Auspice. Mansur began to describe to Verity the life they would live in Africa, and the relatives she would meet there for the first time. “You
will love Aunt Sarah and Uncle Tom.”
“Tom is the best of us three brothers,” Dorian agreed. “He was always the leader, while Guy and myself—” He broke off as he realized that Guy’s name would throw a pall over their mood. The awkward silence drew out and none of them knew how to break it.
Then Verity spoke: “Yes, Uncle Dorian. My father is not a good man, and I know that he is ruthless. I cannot hope to excuse his murderous behaviour when he fired on the longboat. Perhaps I can explain why it happened.”
The two men were silent and embarrassed. They stared into the coals of the fire and did not look at her. After a while she resumed, “He was desperate that no one should discover the cargo he carries in the main hold of the Arcturus.”
“What cargo is that, my dear?” Dorian looked up.
“Before I answer, I must explain to you how my father has amassed such a fortune as to exceed that of any potentate in the Orient, save perhaps the Great Mogul and the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. He is a power-broker. He uses his position as consul general to enthrone and dethrone kings. He wields the power of the English monarchy and the English East India Company to deal in armies and nations as some men deal in cattle and sheep.”
“Those powers you speak of, the monarchy and the Company, are not in his gift,” Dorian demurred.
“My father is a conjuror, a master of illusion. He can make others believe what he wants them to believe, although he cannot even speak the languages of his client kings and emperors.”
“For that he uses you,” Mansur interjected.
She inclined her head. “Yes, I was his tongue, but his is the gift of political perception.” She turned to Dorian. “You, Uncle, have listened to him and you must have understood how persuasive he can be and how uncanny his instincts are.”
Dorian nodded silently, and she went on, “Had you not been forewarned you would have been eager to sample his wares, even though his fee was exorbitant. Well, Zayn al-Din has paid many times more than that to him. The sheer genius of my father is that not only was he able to milk Zayn but the Sublime Porte and the East India Company have paid him almost as much again to act as their emissary. For the work he has done in Arabia during these last three years my father has received fifteen lakhs in gold specie.”
Mansur whistled, and Dorian looked grave. “’Tis almost a quarter of a million guineas,” he said softly, “an emperor’s ransom.”
“Yes.” Verity dropped her voice to a whisper. “And all of it is stored in the main hold of the Arcturus. That is why my father would have died rather than allow you to board his ship, why he was prepared to strike his powder magazine when that cargo was threatened.”
“Sweet heavenly angels, my love,” Mansur whispered, “why did you not tell us this before?”
She looked steadily into his eyes. “One reason only. I have lived all my adult life with a man whose soul is consumed by greed. I know full well the effects of that corrosive affliction. I did not want to infect the man I love with the same disease.”
“That would never happen,” Mansur said hotly. “You do me an injustice.”
“My darling,” she replied, “if you could but see your own face at this very moment.” Shamefaced Mansur dropped his eyes. He knew that her arrow had struck close to the mark, for he could feel the emotions she had warned of churning in his guts.
“Verity, my dear,” Dorian intervened, “would it not be a rich justice if we could use Zayn al-Din’s blood-soaked gold to topple him from the Elephant Throne and set his people free?”
“This is what I have been brooding on endlessly since I threw in my lot so irrevocably with you and Mansur. The reason I have told you about the gold on board the Arcturus is because I reached the same conclusion as you. Please, God, that if we seize that blood money, we use it in a noble cause.”
From afar they saw that much of the Arcturus’s damaged rigging had been replaced or repaired, but as they sailed closer it became clear that she still lay impaled upon the granite horns of the Deceiver like a sacrifice on the altar of Mammon. Closer still they saw a small, forlorn group standing at the foot of the mainmast on the heavily canted deck. Through the lens of the telescope Dorian picked out the burly figure and bright features of Ruby Cornish.
In was obvious that the Arcturus offered no threat. She was immobilized and the heavy list in her deck rendered her batteries useless. The cannons along her port side pointed into the water and the starboard side at the sky. However, Dorian took no chances: he ordered both the Revenge and the Sprite cleared for action and the guns run out. They closed in and hove to on each side of the Arcturus, covering her with their broadsides.
As soon as he was within hail Dorian called across to Cornish. “Will you yield your ship, sir?”
Ruby Cornish was astonished to be addressed by the rebel Caliph in perfect English, toned with the sweet accents of Devon. He recovered swiftly, removed his hat and stepped to the rail, balancing there against the listing deck. “You leave me no choice, Your Majesty. Do you wish to take my sword as well?”
“No, Captain. You fought bravely and acquitted yourself with honour. Please keep it.” Dorian was hoping for Cornish’s co-operation.
“You are gracious, Your Majesty.” Cornish was mollified by these compliments. He clapped his hat back on his head and tightened his sword-belt. “I await your instructions.”
“Where is Sir Guy Courteney? Is he below decks?”
“Nine days ago Sir Guy took the ship’s boats and a party of my best men. He set off for Muscat where he purposes to find assistance. He will return as speedily as is possible to salvage the Arcturus. In the meantime, he left me to guard the vessel and protect her cargo.” This was a long message to shout, and Cornish’s face was as bright as a jewel by the time he had finished.
“I am sending a boarding party to you. I intend to salvage your vessel and float her off the reef. Will you cooperate with my officers?” Cornish fidgeted for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind.
“Majesty, I have yielded to you. I will follow your orders.”
They laid the Sprite and the Revenge along each side of the Arcturus and unloaded her, divesting her of her cannon, shot and water. Then they ran the heaviest anchor cables under her hull as slings. They tightened these with the windlasses on the Revenge and the Sprite until they were rigid as bars of iron. The Arcturus lifted slowly, and they heard the timbers popping and crackling as the granite horns eased their grip in her vitals. The tides were only two days from high springs, and in these waters the tidal variation was almost three fathoms. Before making the final effort, Dorian waited until slack water was at the bottom of the ebb. Then he sent every able-bodied man to his place at the pumps. At his signal they threw themselves on the long handles. The bilge water flew in sheets over the sides, faster than the inflow through rents in the Arcturus’s hull. As she lightened, she strained to tear herself free of the rock. The rising tide added its irresistible impulse to the buoyancy of the hull and, with a last, terrible rending sound from below, the Arcturus slowly righted and floated free.
Immediately all three vessels set their mainsails and, still lashed together, glided out of the Deceiver’s clutches. With fifty fathoms of water under their hulls Dorian brought the linked vessels slowly around on a course for Sawda island. Then he placed an armed guard over the hatches of the Arcturus’s main hold with strict orders that no man be allowed to pass.
The steering was clumsy and erratic, and the three ships staggered along like drinking companions returning homeward from a night of revelry. As the dawn broke they had raised the black massif of Sawda over the horizon, and before noon they had dropped anchor in the bay.
The first task was to draw a heavy canvas sail under the Arcturus’s hull and cover the terrible tears through her bottom timbers; only then could the pumps of all three ships dry her out. Before they warped her into the beach to careen her and complete the repairs, Dorian, Mansur and Verity went aboard her.
Verit
y went directly to her own cabin. She was appalled by the damage that the battle had wrought. Her clothing was in disarray, torn by wood splinters, stained by seawater. Perfume bottles had shattered, powder pots cracked, and the contents had spilled over her petticoats and stockings. However, all of this could be replaced. It was her books and manuscripts that were her prime concern. Chief of these was a set of rare, beautifully illustrated and centuries-old volumes of the Ramayana. This had been a personal gift from Muhammad Shah, the Great Mogul, in recognition of her services as interpreter during his negotiations with Sir Guy. She had already translated the first five volumes of this mighty Hindu epic into English.
Among her other treasures was a copy of the Qur’an. This had been given to her by Sultan Obied, when she and her father had last visited him in the Topkapi Saray Palace in Constantinople. The gift had been made on condition that she translate it into English. This was reputed to be one of the original copies of the authoritative text revisions commissioned by the Caliph Uthman in AD 644 to 656, twelve years after the death of Muhammad, and it was known as the Uthmanic Recension. True to her promise to the Sultan, Verity had almost completed the translation of this seminal work. Her manuscripts were an investment of two years’ painstaking labour. With her heart in her mouth she dragged out the chest in which she kept them from under a pile of fallen timbers and other debris. She exclaimed with relief when she opened the lid and found them undamaged.
In the meantime Dorian and Mansur were searching Sir Guy’s great cabin next door. Ruby Cornish had handed over the key to them. “I have removed nothing,” he told them. They found him as good as his word. Dorian took custody of the Arcturus’s logbooks and all her other papers. In the locked drawers of Guy’s desk they found his private papers and his journals.