In the King`s Name

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.”