The Monsoon (36 page)

“Dorry, hold on!” Tom shouted.

“I’m coming.” He let go of the spar and struck out overarm towards his brother.

Immediately the rope wrapped itself around his legs again.

“TomV Dorian saw him, and reached out a hand towards him.

“Save me, Tom. Please, Please, TomV He was out in the open water, drifting swiftly away.

“I’m coming, Dorry.” Tom kicked and struggled with the rope that held him, but it was like trying to throw off the tenacious grip of an octopus. A wave broke over Dorian’s head, driving him under again.

When he surfaced he was twenty feet further away, flapping his arms uselessly, trying to keep his head clear of the surface.

“Swim, Dotty!” Tom yelled at him.

“Like I taught you.” Dorian heard him, and controlled his frenzied struggles a little.

“Kick, Dorry!” Tom called again.

“Use your hands.” Dorian trod water more determinedly, but the current had him in its grip, and Tom was being pulled away swiftly by the rope that bound him to the broken spar. He ducked below the surface, groped for the rope end and unwound it from around his legs. But the drag of the sea was tightening the loops of line and, although he tore at the rough hemp with bleeding fingers, it would not yield. He had to breathe and he dragged himself back to the surface.

He sucked in air, and once his eyes were clear looked about for Dorian. He saw him a hundred yards away, his expression unreadable with distance but his voice a despairing wail.

“Tom, help me!” At that moment the spar rolled end over end in the water, and Tom was plucked under again, but this time so deep that his eardrums squeaked and the pain shot through his skull like a gimlet. As he tore at the rope that held him he felt the skin on his fingertips smear and his nails tear out at the roots. The pain in his chest, the need to breathe, was insufferable, but he fought on even as the strength went out of him.

His vision faded into blackness, and he was left with nothing but the will to go on. I’m not going to give in. It was the only thought left to him. Dorry needs me. I cannot let myself drown.

Then he felt powerful hands seize him. When he opened his eyes again and forced back the darkness, he saw Aboli’s face only inches from his, his eyes wide open and the weird patterns of his tattoos giving him the aspect of some terrible monster of the deep. He held a knife between his filed teeth and silver bubbles streamed from the corners of his lips.

Aboli had seen-the two boys fall with the shattered mast and, without any hesitation, had deserted his battle station. In the time it had taken him to cross the deck and reach the weather rail, Dorian had drifted fifty yards out from the Seraph’s side. In desperate haste Aboli had ripped off his Islamic robes and headdress and, wearing only his breeches, he had sprung to the rail and balanced there an instant while he decided which of the boys was in deepest peril.

Dorian seemed to be treading water easily, but he was drifting down to where the fleet of Arab dhows hovered.

Tom, though, was trapped in the welter of billowing canvas and tangled ropes. Aboli hesitated, torn between his love for and duty to the boys. He found it impossible to decide between them.

Then, with a loud snap, one of the foremast spars cracked through and rolled over in the water. Tom was entangled in the ropes and had been plucked beneath the surface. Aboli threw one last desperate glance at Dorian’s drifting head, tiny in the distance, drew the knife from the sheath on his belt, clamped the blade between his teeth and dived over the side. He came up almost over the spot where Tom had gone down, snatched another quick breath and dived again. He used the trailing ropes to pull himself down, and peered through the water, which was curtained with whirlpools of turbulence and clouds of bright bubbles.

As he went deeper he saw Tom’s form appear out of the green haze beneath him. He was moving only feebly, near the point of drowning, and the yellow rope was wound around his legs like a python. Aboli reached down and held him by the shoulders, then peered into the boy’s face. He saw Tom’s eyes open and squeezed his shoulders hard to brace him and give him hope. Then he snatched the blade from between his teeth and reached down to the rope that bound Tom’s legs. He did not hack wildly at it, for the blade was razor sharp and might inflict a serious wound in the boy’s bare legs. Instead, he worked carefully to sort out the tangle, sawing one loop at a time until the last strand dropped away and Tom was free. Then Aboli seized him under the armpits and shot upwards towards the surface.

They broke out together, and even while Aboli hunted for air, his great chest filling and purging like a blacksmith’s bellows, he was holding Tom’s face well clear of the water and peering into his eyes for signs of life. Suddenly Tom coughed violently, vomited a gush of seawater and fought for breath. Aboli dragged him onto the fallen mast and draped him over it, slamming his back with the flat of his hand so that the water Tom had swallowed erupted out of his gaping mouth and the air whistled in his throat.

Meanwhile Aboli was looking about desperately for sight of Dorian.

The surface of the sea was misted with gunsmoke, which drifted in a heavy bank towards the land.

The guns were still crashing out a discordant chorus, but gradually sinking into silence as the two ships pulled further and further apart.

At a glance Aboli saw that the Minotaur was already half a mile or more away, all her sails set and drawing, bearing up into the north.

She was making no attempt to take advantage of the Seraph’s crippled state by attacking her while she was unable to manoeuvre.

Instead she was fleeing to safety. Aboli wasted no more time on her but searched again for Dorian.

He saw three of the small dhows circling the Seraph at a wary distance, like jackals around a wounded lion. If the Seraph showed she was capable of giving chase to them, Aboli knew they would immediately head into the shallow water of the lagoon and the shelter of the coral reefs where the big ship could not follow them. Hampered by the tangle of wreckage hanging over her side, the Seraph was unable to come on the wind. She was drifting down with it and the current towards the fatal coral.

Aboli saw that-Big Daniel already had a gang of men with swinging axes clearing away the wreckage. He tried to shout to the men on the deck for help, but they were too intent on their work and his voice did not reach them above the thump of the axe-heads into the timbers and the shouted orders. Then, suddenly, he saw the hull of one of the longboats swing out over the Seraph’s side and drop swiftly to the surface. Immediately the men at the oars pulled furiously towards where Aboli and Tom clung to the shattered foremast. Aboli saw with amazement that Hal was at the tiller. He must have left the ship in Ned Tyler’s charge to come to the rescue of his sons. Now he was on his feet, yelling to Aboli as he approached, Where is Dorian? In God’s name have you seen him?” Aboli could not spare the air from his tortured lungs to reply but the longboat reached them within a minute and three men leaned over to haul them aboard. They dropped Tom onto the deck timbers between the thwarts before they jumped back to take their places at the oars. Aboli saw with relief that Tom was struggling to sit up, and reached down to help him as Hal repeated his question.

“For God’s sake, Aboli, where is Dorian?” As yet unable to use his voice Aboli pointed out into the banks of drifting gunsmoke.

Hal leaped onto the thwart and balanced there easily, shading his eyes against the reflected glare of the low morning sun.

“There he is!” he yelled, with wild relief, and then to the oarsmen, “Pull, lads! Pull for all you’re worth!” The longboat built up speed under the thrust of the long oars, pulling for where the tiny speck of Dorian’s head bobbed a quarter of a mile away.

This sudden precipitous dash out into the open sea, away from the Seraph’s safety, must have caught the attention of the men aboard one of the dhows that were stalking the ship. The Arab crew pointed to Dorian’s drifting head and their excited shouts carried faintly to the men in the longboat. The man in the stern of the dhow hauled the long steering sweep hard across and she altered course. Her crew scrambled to trim her single lateen sail around, and she bore down swiftly towards the child, racing the longboat to be first to reach him.

“Pull!” Hal roared, as he realized the danger.

Aboli dropped Tom back onto the deck, and leaped to a place on the thwart. He pushed the man already there to one side and threw all his massive weight onto the oar.

His muscles bulged and bunched with the effort.

“All together, pull!”h set the stroke and the longboat leaped forward, the waves bursting over her bows and splattering over the straining backs of her crew as they raced towards Dorian.

just then a taller wave lifted the boy high and he saw the longboat coming towards him. Dorian lifted one hand and waved. They were still not close enough to see the expression on his face but it was clear that he had not noticed the dhow skimming in towards him from the opposite direction.

“Swim, lad!” Hal shouted.

“Swim towards us!” But Dorian could not hear him. He waved again weakly, and it was clear that his strength was waning. The morning breeze was light and fitful, and the longboat was making better speed than the dhow, but they were further away from Dorian.

“We’re gaining, lads!” Hal told them.

“We’ll reach him before they do.” He felt the wind puff on his cheek, die away for a moment, then come again stronger and with more determination. He watched it darken the surface of the sea, pass over Dorian’s head, then swell the dhow’s sail tight as a wineskin. The dhow heeled then sped ahead, her bow wave curling white in the early sun.

Dorian must have heard the cries of the Arabs as they bore down on him for his head swivelled round and then he began to swim,-his arms flopping and splashing with exhaustion as he tried to drag himself away from. the racing dhow towards the longboat. He made little headway through the choppy, disturbed water.

With dismay Hal tried to estimate the relative distance and speed of the two vessels, and saw that they could not outrun the dhow.

“Pull!” he cried in despair.

“A hundred golden guineas if you reach him first! Pull! For God’s sake, pull!” There were at least twenty men in the dhow. It was an ugly little craft, the sail tattered, patched and stained with filth, the paintwork peeling from the hull, the planking zebra-striped where her crew had defecated over her gunwale. One of them lifted a long-barrelled jezail, and aimed over the narrowing gap at the longboat. White smoke spurted from the ancient weapon, and Hal heard the ball snap past his head but he did not even flinch.

Aboli heaved on the long oar with such force and effort that his eyes bulged from their sockets, suffused with blood, and his tattooed face locked in a horrible, snarling rictus. The oar bent like a green branch in his great hands, and the water hissed softly under the bows to spread in an arrow-straight shining wake behind.

The dhow was swifter still, though, and she had less distance to travel. Hal felt the ice of dread encase his chest as he realized, at last, that they could not win: they were still a hundred yards from Dorian as the dhow captain came level with him and rounded up into the wind, heaving to just long enough for five of his men to lean out over the side and reach down to seize the child.

They lifted him, struggling and kicking, from the sea with the water streaming from his clothing, his terrified shrieks ringing in Hal’s head. Hal drew the pistol from under his waistcoat and pointed it in despair, but he knew it was futile even before Aboli growled, “No, Gundwane!

You might hit the boy.” Hal lowered it and watched as Dorian was dragged over the filthy gunwale and the dhow captain put over the sweep and swung the craft back on to the wind. Her sail filled with a clap and she bore away, coming round with surprising speed and handiness on to her best point of sailing. She sped away towards the land. The Arab crew screamed abuse and mockery at them. A few fired their jezails and the bullets splashed into the sea around the longboat.

Hal’s crew collapsed gasping and streaming with sweat on their oars and watched her go. No one spoke, just stared after the speeding dhow, devastated at the loss of the winsome lad who was everyone’s favourite.

Then two of the Arabs lifted Dorian’s small struggling body high in the air, so that the men in the longboat could see his pale face clearly. One drew the curved dagger from its sheath at his belt and lifted it high over his own head so that the silver blade caught the sunlight and glinted.

Then he lifted Dorian’s chin and pulled back his head like a pig for the slaughter. Deliberately he placed the blade against his throat and held it there, grinning back at the other men in the dhow.

Hal felt part of himself shrivel and die deep inside, and a whisper forced itself unbidden from his lips: “Lord, I pray you, spare my boy. Anything you ask of me, I will do, but spare me this.” Dorian was still struggling in the Arab’s grip, and suddenly the cap fell from his head. His red-gold locks tumbled down onto his shoulders and shone in the sunlight. In obvious consternation, the man jerked the blade away from his throat. There was a sudden commotion in the dhow and the rest of the crew crowded around Dorian, gesticulating and shouting.

Then he was bundled away out of their sight. On its wide triangular sail the dhow sped away.

It was two miles distant before Hal could bring himself to give the order to row back to the drifting Seraph, but all the way he was looking back over his shoulder. He saw the dhow following the tiny shape of the Minotaur up the channel into the north.

“That is where I will look for them,” he whispered.

“And I will never cease until I find them.” On board the Seraph there was desperate work to be done to save the ship. This helped Hal to survive the first dreadful hours of his loss. The ship could not steer up into the wind with the foremast, sails and rigging dragging through the water like an enormous sea anchor. Hal set all sail on the standing masts to try to hold her off the lee shore, but this merely delayed the moment when she would be carried aground.