entre pets on the African coast. There would also be the annual pilgrimage of the faithful of Islam taking advantage of the same fair wind to sail up the Arabian Sea on their journey to the birthplace of the Prophet of God. Potentates and princes, ministers of state and rich merchants from every corner of the Orient, they would carry with them such riches as he could only guess at, to lay as offerings in the holy mosques and temples of Mecca and Medina.
Cumbrae allowed himself a few minutes to dream of pigeon's-blood rubies and cornflower sapphires the size of his fist, and elephant-loads of silver and gold bullion. 'With the Gull and the Golden Bough sailing together, there ain't no black heathen prince who will be able to deny me. I will fill my holds with the best of it. Franky Courtney's miserly little treasure pales beside such abundance,' he consoled himself. It still rankled sorely that he had not been able to find Franky's hiding place, and he scowled. 'When I sail from this lagoon, I will leave the bones of Jiri and those other lying blackamoors as signposts to mark my passing, 'he promised himself.
Sam Bowles interrupted his thoughts by sticking his head into the cabin. 'Begging your pardon, your grace, we've rounded up all the prisoners. It was a clean sweep. Not one of them got away.'
The Buzzard heaved himself to his feet, glad to have a distraction from these niggling regrets. 'Let's see what you've got for me, then.'
The prisoners were bound and squatting in three files in the ship's waist. 'Forty-two hardened salt-water men,' said Sam proudly, 'sound in wind and limb.'
'None of them wounded?' the Buzzard asked incredulously.
Sam answered in a whisper, 'I knew you wouldn't want to be bothered to play nursemaid to such. We held their heads under water to help them on their way into the bosom of Jesus. For most of them it was a mercy.'
'I'm amazed at your compassion, Mister Bowles,' Cumbrae grunted, 'but in future spare me such details. You know I'm a man of gentle persuasion.' He put that matter out of his mind and contemplated his prisoners. Despite Sam's assurance, many had been heavily beaten, their eyes were blackened and their lips cut and swollen. They hung their heads and none would look at him.
He walked slowly down the squatting ranks, now and then seizing a handful of hair and lifting the man's face to study it. When he reached the end of the line he came back and addressed them jovially. 'Hear me, my bully lads, I have a berth for all of you. Sail with me and you shall have a shilling a month and a fair share of the prize money and, as sure as my name is Angus Cochran, there'll be sack loads of gold and silver to share.'
None replied, and he frowned. 'Are you deaf or has the devil got your tongues? Who will sail with Cochran of Cumbrae?' The silence hung heavily over the deck. He strode forward and picked out one of the most intelligent looking of his prisoners. 'What's your name, lad?'
'Davey Morgan.'
'Will you sail with me, Davey?'
Slowly the man lifted his head and stared at the Buzzard. 'I saw young Mister Winterton slaughtered and the captain shot down in cold blood on the beach. I'll not sail with any murdering pirate.'
'Pirate!' the Buzzard screamed. 'You dare to call me pirate, you lump of stinking offal? You were born to feed the seagulls, and that's what you shall do!' The great claymore rasped from its scabbard, and he swung it down to cleave Davey Morgan's head, through the teeth as far as his shoulders. With the bloody sword in his hand he strode down the line of prisoners.
'Is there another among you who would dare to call me pirate to my face?' No man spoke out, and at last Cumbrae rounded on Sam Bowles. 'Lock them all in the Golden Bough's hold. Feed them on half a pint of water and a biscuit a day. Let them think about my offer more seriously. In a few days' time I'll speak to these lovelies again, and we shall see if they have better manners then.'
He took Sam aside and spoke in a quieter tone. 'There is still some storm damage that needs repair.' He pointed up at the rigging. 'She's your ship now, to sail and command. Make all good at once. I want to leave this godforsaken anchorage as soon as I can. Do you hear me, Captain Bowles?'
Sam Bowles's face lit with pleasure at the title. 'You can rely on me, your grace.'
Cumbrae strode to the entry port and slid down into one of the longboats. 'Take me back to the beach, varlets.' He jumped over the side before they touched the sand and waded knee-deep to the shore where Colonel Schreuder was waiting for him.
'My lord, I must speak to you, he said, and the Buzzard smiled at him engagingly.
'Your discourse always gives me pleasure, sit. Come with me. We can talk while I go about my affairs.' He led the way across the beach, and into the grove.
'Captain Llewellyn was-' Schreuder began, but the Buzzard cut him off.
'Llewellyn was a bloody pirate. I was defending myself from his treachery.' He stopped abruptly and faced Schreuder, hauling up his sleeve to display the ridged purple scar that disfigured his shoulder. 'Do you see that? That's what I got for trusting Llewellyn once before. If I had not forestalled him, his desperadoes would have fallen on us and slaughteied us where we stood. I am sure that you understand and that you are grateful for my intervention. It could have been you going that way.'
He pointed at the group of his men who were staggering up from the beach, dragging the corpses of Llewellyn and Vincent Winterton by their legs. Llewellyn's shattered head left a red drag mark through the sand.
Schreuder stared aghast at the burial party. He recognized in Cumbrae's words both a warning and a threat. Beyond the first line of trees was a series of deep trenches that had been freshly dug all over the area where once Sir Francis Courtney's encampment had stood. His hut was gone but in its place was a pit twenty feet deep, its bottom filled with seepage of brackish lagoon water. There was another extensive excavation on the site of the old spice go down It looked as though an army of miners had been at work among the trees. The Buzzard's men dragged the corpses to the nearest of these pits and dumped them unceremoniously into it. The bodies slid down the steep side and splashed into the puddle at the bottom.
Schreuder looked troubled and uncertain. 'I find it difficult to believe that Llewellyn was such a person.' But Cumbrae would not let him finish.
'By God, Schreuder, do you doubt my word? What of your assurance that you wanted to throw in your lot with me? If my actions offend you then it's better that we part now. I will give you one of the pirmaces from the Golden Bough, and a crew of Llewellyn's pirates to help you make your own way back to Good Hope. You can explain your fine scruples to Governor van de Velde. Is that more to your liking?'
'No, sir, it is not,' said Schreuder hurriedly. 'You know I cannot return to Good Hope.'
'Well, then, Colonel, are you still with me?'
Schreuder hesitated, watching the grisly labours of the burial teams. He knew that if he crossed Cumbrae he would probably end up in the pit with Llewellyn and the sailors from the Golden Bough. He was trapped.
'I am still with you,' he said at last.
The Buzzard nodded. 'Here's my hand on it, then.' He thrust out his huge freckled fist covered with wiry ginger hair. Slowly Schreuder reached out and took it. Cumbrae could see in his eyes the realization dawning that from now onwards he would be beyond the pale and was content that he could trust Schreuder at last. By accepting and condoning the massacre of the officers and crew of the Golden Bough he had made himself a pirate and an outlaw. He was, in every sense, the Buzzard's man.
'Come along with me, sir. Let me show you what we have done here.' Cumbrae changed the subject easily, and led Schreuder past the mass grave without another glance at the pile of corpses. 'You see, I knew Francis Courtney well we were like brothers. I am still certain that his fortune is hidden hereabouts. He has what he took from the Standvastigheid and that from the Heerlycke Nacht. By the blood of all the saints, there must be twenty thousand pounds buried somewhere under these sands.'
At that they came to the long, deep trench where forty of Cumbrae's men were already back at work with spades. Among them were the three black seamen he had bought on the slave block at Good Hope.
'Jiri!' the Buzzard bellowed. 'Matesi! Kimatti!' The slaves jumped, threw down their spades and scrambled out of the ditch in trepidation to face their master.
'Look at these great beauties, sir. I paid five hundred florins for each. It was the worst bargain I ever struck. Here before your eyes you have living proof that there are only three things a blackamoor can do well. He can prevaricate, thieve and swive.' The Buzzard let fly a guffaw. 'Isn't that the truth, Jiri?'
'Yes, Lardy.' Jiri grinned and agreed. 'It's God's own truth.'
The Buztard stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun. 'What do you know about God, you heathen?' he roared and, with a mighty swing of his fist, he knocked Jiri back into the ditch. 'Get back to work all three of you!' They seized their spades and attacked the bottom of the ditch in a frenzy, sending earth flying over the parapet in a cloud. Cumbrae stood above them, his hands on his hips. 'Listen to me, you sons of midnight. You tell me that the treasure I seek is buried here. Well, then, find it for me or you won't be coming with me when I sail away. I'll bury all three of you in this grave that you're digging with your own sooty paws. Do you hear me?'
