In the King's Name (16 page)

He saw Squire raise his hanger and gesture toward a gap in the trees, where the gleam of blue water was sharp-edged in the dawn.

“Be still!” Sergeant Fairfax had appeared from nowhere, his uniform blazing against the undergrowth. He dropped to one knee, musket raised and unmoving.

Napier looked around nervously. There was nothing. Even the sea was out of sight.

Then he heard it. Like ragged breathing: someone gasping. Louder now; he could scarcely hear the click of Fairfax's musket. The unsteady breathing stopped instantly.

Squire said, “Halt or we fire!” He did not raise his voice, but it seemed to hang in the humid air like an echo.

“No! No!” The voice was closer, unsteady. “Don't shoot. I'm only …” The rest was lost as something fell heavily amid the scrub.

Silence again, then somebody behind Napier murmured, “Speaks English, thank God.”

Sergeant Fairfax snapped, “Stay where you are!” and stood slowly, but his musket and fixed bayonet did not waver.
“Easy
, I said!”

Napier heard Squire mutter something as he got to his feet, pistol drawn and ready, and saw Jago step into a flickering patch of sunlight, his cutlass at his side.

He spoke slowly, calmly. “Come ‘ere, matey.” His hand moved slightly toward his belt. “Nice an' easy now.”

Napier saw Squire move fully into the filtered sunlight and come face to face with the shadowy figure. Grey-haired, gaunt in patched clothing, eyes wide as two more marines appeared behind him.

One called, “Nobody else up there, Sar'nt!” But they kept their eyes fixed on the stranger.

Jago held out his hand. “The musket, eh?”

Napier saw the man's confusion, but he did not resist as Jago took the musket and said, “Empty. Never been fired, by the look of it!”

Squire cleared his throat. “Where are you from?” He must have seen the bulging eyes fixed on the uniforms as more of Fairfax's men emerged from cover. “We are your friends.”

Monteith said, “How can we trust him? If I had my way—”

The ragged figure did not seem to hear him. “I have work at mission. They are always good there … They help others.” He covered his face with one hand; he was trembling. “There was shooting. And a fire.”

Squire moved closer, and halted as the other man cowered away from him. Napier did not move, dared not. The man seemed to be English, a sailor perhaps. Or had been, until something had brought him to the mission.

The voice faltered on. Remembering, maybe reliving. “All gone now. A ship.” He repeated, “All gone now!”

“It looks like we're too late.” Squire sounded angry. With himself. “The captain will be wondering what the hell's happening!”

The stranger was staring at Napier fixedly, as if he were seeing a vision. “You are young. I remember when I …” He reached out as if to grasp his hand or arm.

Jago murmured, “Easy does it, matey,” and his fingers flexed on his cutlass. “Where do you come from?”

“I told you! Th' mission!” A spark of impatience or sudden determination, but he did not look away from Napier. “I will take
you
. Show you.”

Squire opened his mouth as if to countermand it, then he said very softly, “It's not an order, David. We'll be with you.”

Napier did not trust himself to answer. Men had already died. And for what? He looked steadily at the ragged man and tried to shut his mind to everything else. He said simply, “Show me.”

They turned toward the wash of dawn sweeping the eastern sky, and he imagined he could feel its growing heat on his face. For a moment longer he thought the man had not heard him, but then they were walking together, side by side, and he heard him utter one word.

“Home.”

In a few seconds they were completely alone, or so it felt. Every so often he glimpsed blue water between the trees, but if he looked back over his shoulder, the beach and the distant ship were invisible.

At any moment
… He had to control his thoughts. Fear was always the enemy. Time and distance meant nothing. When had he last been able to sleep without the picture of the stricken schooner in his mind? The feel of a dying man's grip on his wrists …

He said conversationally, “My home is in Cornwall. Do you know it?”

No answer, but the bony hand dragged at his arm. “This way.”

Out of nowhere, a pair of giant rocks appeared, long fallen from the hillside, and it was as if he had been cut off from every hope of aid. Separated. Even the sounds of their feet across loose branches, the whine of insects, their own breathing seemed louder in the stillness. His mind was screaming. They were alone.
Any minute now
…

He tripped and felt the bony, steadying hand, heard the whispering voice. “Look yonder.” And, carefully, “Da-vid.”

Napier stood very still, unable to accept that they had arrived so suddenly. Like a great curtain being dragged aside, light and colour replacing the shadows and pitfalls of the jungle. A small cove shaped like a horseshoe beneath a hill the twin of the one behind them. And beyond, the ocean.

And here was the mission, or what remained of it. Small buildings no more than crude shacks, and a main structure which had once been painted white, as a simple landmark for passing vessels. It was charred beyond recognition, and the smell was sickening.

He realised he was alone. He swung round and tried to tug the hanger from his belt. A trap, a betrayal? But he knew it was neither.

He could not take his eyes from the smoking buildings, and a painted sign he could not read from here, which was surmounted by a wooden crucifix flaking in the sun.

The ragged man had returned. “Others are following. I tell them to wait.”

Napier imagined Squire's reaction. He would soon close in. He asked, “All gone from here?”

“They came to rob and steal. Need stores for voyage. To carry slaves.” The gaunt shoulders lifted. “The ship sailed, but some of them stayed here. It has … happened before.”

Napier thought of the shots, and the scream. “Is any one alive?”

The man did not reply immediately, but was staring, like Napier, at the charred building.

“Mister Dundas is a strong man.
Fine
man.” He shuddered. “Man of God.” He straightened and seemed to compose himself. Then he touched Napier's forearm, as if to lead him. “We will go down. Your comrades will wait no longer.” He gave a ghostly smile. “Da-vid.”

They left the shelter of the trees and walked down through trampled grass toward the mission. Napier stayed close beside him. Suppose the man was completely mad, or driven beyond reason by what he had seen or imagined?

There was a body lying against a length of fence, a black man, shot in the face, one fist still gripping an axe. Napier heard the flies buzzing as they passed.

“I was afraid. I ran away when they attacked the mission. I came to find you. I saw you land.”

Napier looked at the heavy door of a single structure separate from the burned remains of other buildings. A chapel of sorts. A notice was displayed nearby, with the same name, William Dundas, and a few lines of scripture in English.

The door was badly damaged and scarred by several shots. There was complete silence.

Napier said, “You brought me. I only hope—” and the grip tightened on his arm.

“I deserted them. I must do it!” The man's eyes were running in the drifting smoke. Or they were tears? Then he walked up to the door and shouted, “Ahoy! It's Wolsey! I am with friends! The navy!”

Napier watched him twisting his head in all directions, screwing a corner of his coat into a tight ball, his composure gone. To his relief he saw bayonets glinting beyond the broken fence, and patches of scarlet moving. And here came Jago, grim-faced, lifting one hand as he strode toward the building.

Napier heard the first tentative scrape of metal, and the heavy-timbered door was opened wide. The interior was completely dark, pierced here and there by thin beams of light through what must be shutters or other defenses. Napier stood with his back to the sun, every instinct warning him that he was a perfect target, but unable to move.

A few figures staggered or pushed others aside to reach the door, natives, perhaps workers at the mission, and several children, running out into the sunlight and huddling together, hiding their faces as they were confronted by seamen and marines.

But many of the others inside did not move. Nor would they.

Napier felt Squire's heavy hand on his shoulder as he brushed past. “Well done, David. Your guide kept his word!” He waved toward his men. “Otherwise …”

It was a grim sight. Some had crawled here for help, or to die. Others seemed too dazed to understand what was happening. In a corner of the chapel a white woman knelt on the floor, a grey-haired man propped against her.

Napier dropped to his knees beside them and tried to take the weight from her, but she pushed him away, struggling and hitting him with her fists, screaming, “Don't touch me! I can't …” She broke off in a fit of coughing.

Napier put his arm around her shoulders, conscious only of her rage and fear. She was wearing a loose white garment that might have been a man's shirt, and her arms and legs were bare. He knew that she wore little else.

He felt the weight lifted clear and heard someone mutter, “‘E's dead, poor bastard!”

The woman began to struggle again, her nails reaching for his face. “My father!
Not dead!”

Men were making their way deeper into the building, more light guiding them as shutters and doors were forced open. The woman was quite still now in Napier's arms, and was staring into his face. There was a bruise on her cheek, and a wound across her neck. There had been a lot of blood, too. Hers.

She said suddenly,
“Where were you?”
Her voice was taut, like a knife-edge. The bare arms and legs were very tanned, and she was English.

He said quietly, “We came as soon as we knew,” and tightened his grip again as something dropped and broke and a man swore, angry or unnerved.

She had dark hair, loose and tangled, but when he moved to push it back from her face he felt her flinch as if expecting a blow. Pain, or worse. But the eyes remained unnaturally steady, fixed on his face.

“Wolsey found you. He came back.”

“He's here with me.” He stroked the hair from her face and she did not resist this time.

“I should have known. Been ready. But they never gave us a chance. My father tried.” She seemed to shiver. “He always
believed.”

A shadow loomed over them: it was Squire, his eyes everywhere, wary but very calm. “We'll soon have you out of here, my dear.”

He crouched unhurriedly and took one of her limp hands. “Our doctor will soon have you as right as rain.” She began to protest, but he continued, “You must be Mr. Dundas's daughter.” He was turning over her wrist, revealing the deep rope burns; she appeared to have been cruelly tied and dragged. “We'll take care of you.” He released her hand, quite gently. “So what do we call you?”

She moved her head stiffly, and her eyes left Napier's to focus on Squire's face. “Claire Dundas.”

Squire looked over his shoulder, frowning at the interruption as Monteith appeared and stood framed in the doorway.

“All mustered.” He looked at the grey-haired man, lying dead on a frayed carpet. “Sergeant Fairfax reports that the intruders have gone.”

Squire hid his impatience. “And what do
you
say?” He did not wait for an answer, but rose and peeled off his uniform coat. “Here, my dear. A bit too hot for later, but you put it on now, eh?”

She stood swaying on her feet, and when she obediently held out her arms Napier saw another wound on her naked shoulder. She had been bitten.

She tugged the coat around her until the lapels overlapped her slim body. Without taking his eyes from her, Squire said, “I'm sending Jago with the gig and McNeil. Tell the captain, ‘bosun's chair.' He'll know what to do.”

The girl called Claire said dully, “McNeil. A Scottish name.”

Squire looked back at the dead man on the floor. “Yes. Like Dundas.”

Napier reached for her arm. “Come outside with me.”

He saw her turn toward her father's body and Squire said gently, “I'll take care of him for you.” She attempted to pull away and almost fell. Napier took her hand again, but he was looking at Squire. So familiar and easy-going. A true sailor, he thought.

He was far more than that.

Sergeant Fairfax was waiting with two of his marines, a length of shutter carried between them.

Fairfax touched his hat. “Ready for the lady when you give the word, sir!”

Fairfax was a senior sergeant, and had never given up the hope of promotion. He watched them lifting the young woman onto a layer of blankets. He had seen plenty of people in shock during times of war, on land and at sea. Most of them recovered. There was little alternative in the navy, much less in the Corps.

The marines were lifting their makeshift litter, and carrying it with care, the woman partly shrouded by the lieutenant's coat. She was staring up at the sky, heedless of the burning sun. There was blood on one bare ankle, but she was safe. Fairfax kicked bitterly at a loose stone. Safe? How could she feel safe after what she must have endured?

He shouted, “Come on then, we don't have all day to find them boats!”

He saw one of the seamen glare at him, and was glad. He heard a shout and saw Midshipman David Napier waving from a gap in the trees. Nothing more was needed: the ship was in sight. Their part in this venture was over.

Squire was standing beside the woman now, speaking with her even as she dragged her hand from his. Sergeant Fairfax knew from hard experience that it was only just beginning.