Corsair (48 page)

Hector glanced up and down the shoreline. ‘We must warn whoever is on the ship. This may be our only chance of getting downriver.’

‘We could fire a musket,’ suggested Bourdon. ‘That would warn them.’

‘No. It would also alert the Moors. They would not treat us kindly for interfering. Besides, if the crew of the vessel know they are in danger, they will raise anchor and sail away.’

‘Then what are we to do?’

‘We must get out to the vessel ourselves. Dan, what are our chances of using one of those canoes to reach the ship?’ Hector pointed to the canoes drawn up on the bank.

The Miskito looked at the craft, then said, ‘They’re dugouts, hollowed from a single log. Even the smallest will be too heavy to be shifted by the four of us. We’ll have to think of something else, and quickly. Someone on the boat is getting ready to come ashore.’

A figure had appeared on the deck of the anchored vessel. He was hauling in the ship’s boat. A second man was getting ready to assist him. In a few moments they would be starting out for the shore.

‘We’ll have to risk the musketeers,’ Hector said. ‘They are on the far side of the landing place from us, and may not be good shots. We wait until the ship’s boat is halfway across, then we leave our hiding place and run down to the shoreline. We’ll have the slope in our favour so we should be able to move fast, and we’ll have the element of surprise to help us. We should have covered most of the distance before the Moors even notice us. So we keep silent, just run like the devil.’

‘And what then?’ asked Bourdon.

‘We run right into the water, heading for the boat. We get to the boat before it’s in range of the musketeers, scramble aboard, and have the crew take us out to the ship.’

‘You’ve forgotten one thing,’ said Jacques quietly. ‘Neither Karp nor I can swim well. This time we don’t have empty barrels to float us.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Hector. ‘If you look closely, you will see that the foreshore slopes very gently. Almost certainly it stays shallow for a long way out, far enough for you to wade out to the rowboat. It’s our only chance. We must reach the boat before it falls into the trap.’

He looked around at his companions. ‘No point in keeping your muskets now. Get rid of them. Strip off any clothing that may hinder you as you run. When I give the word, make a dash for it. As you run, spread out. That will make us a harder target for the musketeers. If anyone trips and falls, he must look after himself as best he can. The musketeers are bound to get off at least one shot, probably two. Any more will depend on how quickly they reload.’

He laid his own musket on the ground and unbuckled the belt that held his powder horn and stock of bullets. He removed his heavy sandals. Young Ibrahim had made them and he had planned to keep them as a memento of the young man. But running in bare feet was more important now. He pulled over his head the long loose shirt that he had worn in the desert. Now he was wearing only a pair of loose cotton drawers. The others followed his example, and when they were ready, he waved them forward. They crouched on the edge of the bluff, watching the ship’s boat moving closer. There were two men in her. They were rowing steadily, taking a slanting course to counteract the pull of the river current. They were nearly halfway to the shore.

‘Get ready!’ said Hector quietly. ‘See you aboard . . . let’s go!’

He stood up and launched himself over the edge of the bank. The face of the bluff fell away in a steep slope, part sand, part gravel. The surface was loose and crumbly, and he felt his bare feet slipping and slithering. He plunged onward, concentrating on keeping his balance. It was impossible to control his speed. The angle of the slope made him set one foot after the other just to keep himself upright. He could hear the sound of his companions as they too pelted down the hill. Belatedly he realised that he should have told them to swerve a little from side to side as they ran, to put the musketeers off their mark. But there was no sound of a shot. As yet they had not been seen.

He was almost at the bottom of the slope when he heard the shouts. Hector took another dozen strides before the explosion of the first musket shot. A moment later, there came the sound of a volley. He thought there was the sound of a musket ball whizzing past, but his breath was coming in great gasps so he could not be sure. He glanced around to see if anyone had been hit. To his shock he realised that he was the slowest runner of the four. Dan was several yards ahead of him to his left, and Bourdon was close behind him. Karp was level with him, a little distance away and running steadily.

Now they were on the level ground of the shoreline itself. The hardened mud of the beach was beneath the soles of his feet. It was easier to run without the fear of tripping or losing balance. The baked river mud stretched out before him, and he found himself wondering at the regular surface of plate-like cracks. He ran on.

He glanced to his left towards the rowing boat. The two men in it had heard the shots, and turned to see what was happening. They were resting on their oars. The boat had come to a standstill. In a few moments the current would catch it and it would begin to drift downstream. Hector hoped that the current would not take it out of reach.

His legs were tiring now and he could feel the air harsh in his throat. He forced himself to concentrate on taking steady strides. Soon he would be at the water’s edge, and then in the shallows.

Without warning his right foot broke through the crusted mud. In a shocking plunge his right leg dropped straight down into the slime beneath. It was as if he had stepped into thin air. He was thrown forward and sideways and slammed face down, the breath knocked out of him. As he fell, he felt an agonising pain in his ankle. He twisted to one side, desperately trying to free his leg, grimacing at the fierce, lancing pain, and he remembered what the coffle’s blind guide had said: a camel was uninjured when its foot broke through a crusted salt pan, but a horse would break its leg.

He looked up to see what had happened to his companions. Both Dan and Bourdon had turned back. They had seen him collapse. Now, to his mingled dismay and relief, they were hurrying towards him.

‘Here, let me get you back on your feet,’ offered Dan. He bent down and seized him by an arm. A moment later the Frenchman was on his other side, and had grasped him around the waist. Together they began to tug him clear. ‘Leave me,’ Hector gasped. His leg was buried up to mid thigh. ‘Run for yourselves. I’ll be able to manage.’

They ignored him.

‘Here, put an arm over my shoulder,’ Dan ordered. Working with Jacques, he wrenched Hector bodily upward. The trapped leg came out of the mud like a rotten tooth from its socket.

Several more muskets shots. Hector was amazed that no one had been hit. He tried to put his right foot on the ground, and gasped in agony. He almost fell again. Together his two friends began to carry him towards the water’s edge, Hector’s right leg trailing uselessly behind him.

‘I said, leave me! I’ll manage.’ He spoke through clenched teeth.

Again they ignored him.

‘Leave me, please!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘Three of us together make an easy target.’

Now he became aware of Karp. The Bulgar also had abandoned his headlong dash for the river, and had come to join them. He was hovering nearby, anxious to assist. Another musket shot rang out. It could not be long before one of them was struck down.

‘Karp! Run on,’ Hector pleaded. ‘Get to the boat. There’s nothing you can do.’

To his astonishment, Karp raised his hand in some sort of salute. Then he turned and began to run. But he did not run towards the shore. He ran directly towards the red-robed Moor still waiting at the landing place. As he ran he let out a great raw screech and began to flail his arms. He was like a madman, half-naked and howling with rage. There was a single musket shot, then a brief lull in the firing as the hidden musketeers decided what they should do.

In that pause Dan and Bourdon reached the shallows, with Hector hanging between them. The rowing boat was forty yards away, still motionless. As Hector felt the splash of water, he turned his head to see what was happening to Karp. The Bulgar was less than twenty paces from the man in the red burnous. Several of the other Moors had jumped up from behind the tree trunk and were running forward. The chieftain’s bodyguards had panicked at the terrifying sight. They were fleeing. Karp screeched again, a long piercing howl which could be heard clearly, and bounded forward like a wild beast. The remaining musketeers had gathered their wits and took him as their target. There came a ragged volley. Karp was impossible to miss. Several musket balls must have struck him for he sank down on one knee.

As Bourdon and Dan lifted Hector farther into the river, the boldest of the Moors ran forward, sword in hand. Hector had a last glimpse of Karp as the scimitar swung up in the air and came slicing down towards the Bulgar’s head.

Hector turned back towards the rowing boat. It was much closer. The two oarsmen were blacks. ‘Help us!’ Hector shouted.

His companions dragged him to where the water was up to their chests. Bourdon the non-swimmer could go no farther.

There was a peculiar whirring noise, closely matched by a gunshot. Hector realised that he was hearing the sound of a musket ball skipping off the water. The musketeers had turned their attention back to the fugitives now they had dealt with Karp. The range was too great for accuracy, but they were taking random shots, hoping to make a lucky hit. For a moment Hector felt like ducking out of sight beneath the surface of the river, but he knew it was futile. The gunmen would simply wait until he reappeared, then shoot. It was better to try to swim out of range. But he could not abandon Bourdon. Despite the excruciating pain in his leg, he and Dan would have to pull the Frenchman along with them as they swam.

Hector clenched his teeth. Every time he moved his injured leg, he felt a stab of pain from his ankle. Bourdon was reluctant to move out of his depth. ‘Come on, Jacques,’ Hector snapped angrily. ‘Dan and I will hold you up. Trust us.’ The Frenchman took a deep breath and floundered forward. He had the clumsy movements of a man who had never learned to swim properly. Hector reached out to hold his head out of water, and he was aware that Dan was supporting Jacques on the other side.

They made little progress. Bourdon was too frightened to relax. His frantic struggles only hindered them. Another musket ball struck the water just beside them – Hector saw the splash – and then went whirring onward.

Suddenly he felt Bourdon begin to sink. For a second he thought that the Frenchman had been hit. Then he knew that Dan had let go. Dan was swimming away.

Hector felt a brief surge of anger and disappointment. He had never expected Dan to abandon them. Then he looked up and saw that Dan was swimming strongly out into the river. He was heading towards the ship’s boat. It had stopped. One rower had dropped his oar in fright. The other rower was shouting at him.

Dan reached the rowboat. He gripped the gunwale and in one smooth wriggling movement had hauled himself aboard. He pushed the frightened oarsman aside and took his place. He barked an order at the man beside him, and began to spin the little craft. The musket fire from the beach had slackened. Hector wondered if perhaps the Moors were running out of powder and bullets. He concentrated on keeping Bourdon’s head above water until Dan had brought the little rowing boat close enough for him to grab on. He let go of Bourdon, who seized the boat so desperately that he nearly capsized it. With Hector pushing from below and Dan hauling him up, they hoisted Jacques into the boat, and a moment later the Frenchman was flopping on the floor boards like a landed fish. Then Hector pulled himself aboard.

The boat was over-loaded and sluggish in the water. Looking back towards the shore, Hector thought he could make out Karp’s body lying on the strand. There was the puff of smoke from a musket, but the bullet flew wide. A group of Moors was clustering around one of the dugout canoes. With the help of some blacks, they were beginning to shift it down the beach. Dan had been right. The dugout was an awkward burden, and they were making slow progress. There was still time to reach the anchored vessel.

Bourdon had recovered from his fright. He began to search for something to help the oarsmen. There was a wooden paddle lying half hidden in the bottom of the boat. The Frenchman tugged out the paddle and began to take great scoops at the water. The speed of the little boat increased. They were almost out of musket range.

Moments later they had reached the anchored vessel. Her side was low enough for them to scramble aboard without difficulty. On deck there were the usual heaps of rope, some sacks, wooden buckets. But no sign of life.

A musket shot, and this time the musket ball slapped into the side of the ship. The Moors had succeeded in launching their dugout, and it was now being paddled out from the beach. There was a single marksman in the bow. He had fired the shot. There must have been a dozen men in the leading dugout, and a second canoe was being launched.

Dan sprang into action. He ran forward to the bow, and began to throw off the coils of the anchor line. But the knots had jammed. He turned towards one of the two black men who had come aboard with them, and mimed a cutting gesture. The negro understood him at once. He groped under a piece of sacking. A moment later he produced a long-bladed knife and running up to the bows began to saw through the anchor line. The first strands sprang up as they were severed. The river current was so strong that the anchor line was taut as an iron bar. Half a dozen more strokes of the blade, and the anchor cable parted. Hector felt the vessel fall back as the current took hold of her.