boy.’
Stratton sat with his back against a tall, sturdy wooden pole fixed solidly into the earth, his hands bound securely behind it by a leather strap. His face and body were battered and bruised where the ambushers’ leader had taken revenge once he’d eventually managed to stand up again. Dried blood was caked around the Englishman’s face and on his chest, where it had dripped from his cuts. He had not moved for hours and had stirred only at the sound of Neravista’s helicopter departing.
His captors had made a temporary camp on the edge of the broad clearing, their ponchos doing service as overhead covers above their bedding a stone’s throw from Stratton. Nearby a company of soldiers lounged around, brewing coffee on small wood fires.
Stratton had been stripped of all his clothes and footwear except for his shorts. He was parched, having been denied water since his capture. But at least the sun had been hidden behind thick clouds all day and the temperature was lower than it could have been.
He had drifted into semi-consciousness during his beating and soon after coming round he gave up plotting any escape for which he would have to depend on his own resources. His bonds were secure and the pole was too high to loop the strap over. A brief effort to push against the pole proved he would never be able to break it or pull it out of the ground. His only chance would come if his captors gave him a window of opportunity. But the beating he had given the patrol commander and his subordinate had made them wary of him and they were keeping a close watch on him.
Stratton estimated the time at around four in the afternoon although it was difficult to judge without being able to see the sun. He could only hope that the clouds would burst soon so that he could ease his thirst with their rain.
He realised several soldiers were looking at him and it became obvious that he was the subject of their conversation. One of them walked over to talk with the ambushers’ leader. Several of the others followed him. It attracted the attention of the rest of the ambushers and before long there was quite a gathering.
The bearded leader seemed to arrive at some kind of agreement with the soldier and together they walked over to Stratton, followed by the others. The leader and the first soldier stopped in front of the captive while the others surrounded him.
‘Stand up,’ the leader demanded.
The uniformed soldier stared intensely at Stratton, a grimace on his rugged face.
Stratton brought his feet under him and shuffled his arms up the pole as he straightened his legs. The ambushers’ leader decided to lend a hand and grabbed him by the hair to help him up. The soldier stepped closer to square up to him, his face full of hatred.
‘I’m told you are the one who blew up Chemora,’ the soldier said.
Stratton couldn’t see any reason to deny it. ‘I had that pleasure,’ he said. There was no point in being half- hearted about it, either.
‘My brother was on that bridge. I could not find him when they asked me to look at the bodies. All I know is that he isn’t here any more.’
Stratton could only stare at the man. But it didn’t matter. The very sight of him seemed to enrage the soldier. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist, drew it back and drove it deep into the pit of Stratton’s stomach with all the strength he could muster. Stratton bent over as the wind left his lungs and he thought he was going to throw up despite having nothing in his stomach. But the soldier had not finished with him. He grabbed hold of Stratton’s hair, yanked him upright and gave him a stinging blow across the face. Blood splashed those nearby as the wounds already on Stratton’s lips reopened. He dropped forward again and his vision clouded. The soldier pulled his head up once again and delivered another savage blow to his body, following it up with another to his face.
‘To hell with this,’ the soldier said, taking a knife from his belt. ‘I’m going to fillet him right here.’
He gripped Stratton by the throat and was about to shove the point of the long, sharp knife into the Englishman’s gut when the ambushers’ leader grabbed his arm. ‘No, my friend,’ he said, holding the soldier steadily. ‘I’m sorry about your brother but this bastard’s work is not done yet. My orders are to keep him alive . . . He dies tomorrow but not before.’
The soldier was far from satisfied but he did not force the issue.
The bearded leader seemed relieved that the soldier had backed down. ‘If you’re around at the time you can do it yourself. I’ll look out for you.’
The soldier released Stratton and stepped back. He sheathed his knife but before leaving he hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it in Stratton’s face.
Then he walked away, his colleagues patting him on the back and consoling him.
‘I lied to him,’ the ambushers’ leader said, watching the soldiers go. ‘I’m going to kill you myself.’
As the bearded leader and his colleagues walked away Stratton slid back down the pole and slumped to the ground. His vision was still fuzzy and he felt nauseous. He dropped his head to one side, closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.
Louisa stood in front of the stables, looking out across the jungle towards Hector’s encampment. She had learned about the return of Victor’s horse and Stratton’s subsequent departure. It was late in the afternoon and the activity in the camp had greatly increased with the rumours of a Neravista attack. Reports that patrols from some of the outlying observation posts had not returned and their reliefs had failed to open up communications only increased the speculation.
Men headed to defensive locations throughout the camp. Sebastian had given the general order to stand to. The rebels’ living quarters buzzed with preparations, the wiser ones among them gathering their possessions and packing them up in order to move quickly if they had to. Generally, confidence remained high that the combined guerrilla forces could repel a government attack.
Their leaders, however, had reason to be concerned. The other brigades had been unusually quiet, in particular their nearest neighbour, Hector. What messages they had received were vague. Their requests for intelligence on enemy troop activity had been met with inconsistent reports and even silence.
Sebastian had said very little about the matter. Some read this as evidence of calm confidence while others felt he had run out of ideas.
Louisa decided to give up waiting and headed back towards the cabin, looking over her shoulder one last time at the edge of the jungle behind her.
Men were preparing for combat in the courtyard in front of the cabins and on the open ground beyond. They were quiet as they speculated about the intentions of the Neravistas and the other rebel brigades.
Louisa entered her father’s cabin where half a dozen officers surrounded the dining table, poring over diagrams of the camp and outlying area and discussing their defences.
Sebastian was not there. She crossed to his bedroom at the back and knocked gently on the door. ‘It’s me, father.’
She heard him reply and she opened the door. Sebastian stood by his wardrobe, holding a smart-looking uniform on a coat-hanger. He placed it on his bed with some reverence.
‘What is that?’ Louisa asked. She had not seen it before.
He looked strangely cheerful, as if the uniform gave him some kind of pleasure. ‘It’s a dress uniform. I had it made some years ago.’
‘It’s very regal,’ she said, wondering why he was revealing it now. ‘Is everything okay, father?’
Sebastian’s expression became serious. ‘I want you to leave, Louisa. Can you do that for me, without arguing?’
‘No,’ she answered lightly.
He looked tired. ‘Why won’t you do as I ask?’
‘I have told you. It’s my life now. It’s no more complicated than that.’
Sebastian took a moment to consider his next words. ‘If you are to pursue your ambitions, this is where we
