Even before they had finished it was clear the boat was going to make it over the bar so Kydd ordered it forward, men guiding it around the twisting channel to the deeper water beyond. The other was brought through but it was taking longer than planned – time was ticking by and to be caught in daylight would be utterly disastrous.
Stirk retrieved his gear: gunner’s pouch, a cartridge box with the precious quickmatch sealed inside and a satchel of ‘come-in-handies’ that no self-respecting gunner’s mate would be without. Wong and Pinto were each burdened with a barrel of powder sewn in canvas and strapped to their backs, while Doud carried a carpenter’s bag with a mysterious glint of brass inside.
The two boats were manned again and Kydd looked across at the four burdened figures standing in the shallows. So much depended on their courage and cool-headed devotion to duty. He tried to think of something encouraging to say but words failed him at the enormity of what he was asking them to do and he could only fall back on a hissed ‘Good luck!’ as they hastened away.
From the first, Stirk took the lead. The directions given were easy enough, and the almost luminous white of the sand beneath his feet made choosing a path easy. ‘Shift y’r arse, Pinto!’ he growled, as the Iberian fell back with the weight of his barrel. Concerned, Doud closed with him and, after a while, insisted on changing burdens. Pinto gasped his thanks and the party pressed on.
It was only a matter of twenty minutes or so before they came to the last bend and made out the secret base and the stark height of its palisades, with here and there the red glow of dying fires. Now oriented, Stirk took the little band in a wide circle to where they must lie-up. He dropped his gear and, on hands and knees, went silently forward. Almost immediately he saw the black shape of a warrior with a spear against the sky. Another was standing idly by.
He froze, fixing the position in his mind. Part of him rebelled in horror – he remembered the cannibalism he’d witnessed on a Pacific island – but this was no time to take fright. He backed away slowly to rejoin his friends. ‘There’s African bastards all about, mates. Doud – go out ’n’ give it y’r best, cuffin.’
Hefting his carpenter’s bag, Doud grunted, ‘Let’s go, y’ Portugee shicer.’
Leaning across, Wong whispered hoarsely to them, ‘
‘Thanks, shipmate,’ Doud threw back, with a grin, and they disappeared into the night.
There was one thing that was sure. Either their diversion worked or the entire expedition would fail – and their death would be certain.
It was the end for Renzi and it were better he accepted it. Prisoner and executioner followed the path as it wound around the bend and emerged facing the dark expanse of the wide lower reaches of the river, the starlight laying a pearly opacity on the still waters, so beautiful and infinitely poignant.
As graciously as at a garden party, the baron indicated a thicket of greenery at the water’s edge.
Renzi took position there, then turned to face the river, remembering to stand still so as not to upset the aim. It was odd but in his last moments he had no particular thought, no last-minute hot rush of memories – simply a wistful regret that for him there was to be no more future, in fact . . . nothing.
Behind him he heard the box open, the steely click of preparation and he waited for the extinction of life. Taking his last look at the innocent sky, he emptied his mind of thoughts. Behind him the pistol was cocked with a lethal finality, and then—
A deep, ghastly moan swelled away in the bush to the right, rising to a tortured howl that overwhelmed the senses with a primitive horror, baying at the night before finishing in a groan of despair.
In the split-second that the torch was dropped by a man paralysed with fright, Renzi ducked and the pistol fired blindly above. He swung round savagely and cannoned into the baron who was knocked sprawling. The sputtering light of the dropped torch revealed an assegai thrown away by the panicking men as they fled. He snatched it up with a snarl and held it to the baron’s throat.
‘Get up, sir! We have company!’ Nothing else could explain the existence in the African bush of a standard stirrup North Atlantic fog-horn dutifully groaning its message into an unheeding world.
As the cries of fleeing warriors faded, Stirk stood up. ‘Right, mate. We’ve work t’ do.’ He hefted his gear and made for the palisade. Wong joined him with the powder barrels.
Up against the heights of the palisade, the dense interweaving of laths and vines over hardwood uprights looked impregnable. They had nothing with them that had a chance against it. It was too high to vault over and, anyway, the top was ridged with sharpened stakes. Distant rallying shouts sounded in the night – they had minutes only before the warriors returned.
‘
Cries of alarm and savage shouts from the darkness could only mean they had been discovered. Stirk fumbled under his shirt and yanked out a silver chain. Into the night, for those who could know, came the pealing stridency of a boatswain’s call piping, ‘Repeat the last order!’
An instant later the terrifying howl was heard again – much closer, erupting in a hideous swell of agony that could only have come from the undead of the nether regions. The shouts turned to frantic wails and rapidly faded into the distance.
‘I’ll bear ye a fist, Wong,’ Stirk said, and added his weight, heaving down heartily as if at the jeer-tackle of the main-yard. There was another splintering crack and the whole section lurched and drooped. Stamping it clear, he looked into the compound. As described, there was a low structure nearby and he darted across to it. ‘Over here, mate,’ he called.
To prepare took seconds only: a hasty slash at the canvas cover of the first barrel to expose a makeshift fuse from its interior. The end of the quickmatch was joined to it; he shoved the second barrel next to it and retreated, letting out the reel of quickmatch as he went. Through the palisades and out into the bush as far as the cord would go – there was no knowing just how much powder was in store.
In a pierced tin box a length of slowmatch was alight, of the kind kept in a match-tub next to guns in case of misfires. He tenderly took it out, blew on it and was rewarded with a healthy glow. ‘It’ll do, me old cock. Ready?’
