‘Pull!’ hissed Molineaux. ‘Pull, damn your eyes!’ He knew the other slaves could not understand his words, but he hoped they would get the general idea.
The captives pulled on their fetters, seeking to break them away from the wooden pillars which supported the roof. If they succeeded the whole roof would probably come down on their heads, but it was only made of palm leaves and a few bamboo poles, and a few cuts and bruises were preferable to a life of perpetual slavery. But the wooden beams were fixed deep in the ground, and they could not be budged.
Molineaux heard voices outside. He quickly motioned for everyone to stop pulling and resume their earlier positions. A light showed through the gate of the shed, and he saw Prince Khari standing on the other side with Tobias, who held an oil lamp aloft. ‘See, your highness? There’s no one here but these slaves, and they ain’t going anywhere.’
‘I want to be sure. Open the gate.’
The two men entered the shed, and Tobias moved the light of the lamp over the slaves, moving along the row. Khari eyed them warily, looking for anything which suggested that all was not well.
Molineaux rose up on his knees as they approached him, his hands clasped together. ‘Please doan’ make me no slave, mas’er! I beg you! I ain’t no African, I is a freeborn Englishman! Oh lawdy, please doan’ send me to th’ Americas, please!’ He grabbed Tobias by the belt in supplication. The slaver slapped him across the face with his left hand, and Molineaux fell back to the floor.
‘Shut your noise, you crazy nigger sonuvabitch!’
‘Poor dumb white trash,’ Molineaux muttered under his breath, as Tobias led Khari to the end of the row. Khari heard him and glanced over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised, but he did not see that Molineaux had expertly filched the ring of keys from Tobias’s belt.
‘All right,’ said Khari. ‘Salazar was wrong. He did come on his own.’
The two of them turned and strode back towards the gate. Molineaux did not bother to wonder who had come on his own. He had about fifteen seconds. He inserted the key into the padlock on his left manacle. The other slaves shifted where they lay, clinking their fetters so that Khari and Tobias would not hear the keys jingle in Molineaux’s hands.
The first padlock snapped open and Molineaux’s left hand was free. Two more to go, but Khari and Tobias were only a few feet from the gate now. The right manacle was trickier, because he had to use his left hand to unfasten it. His hands were trembling so much he could barely get the key in the hole. He dropped the keys, cursed himself silently, and tried again. The key turned at once.
Khari and Tobias had reached the gate.
Now the neck-collar. But the first key did not fit. Molineaux tried the next one, and again found it did not fit.
Khari and Tobias went outside and closed the gate behind them. Tobias snapped the padlock on the gate back into place and then reached for his keys to lock it.
Molineaux inserted a third key into the padlock on his collar.
‘What’s wrong?’ Khari asked Tobias.
‘My keys… damn it, I must have had them a moment ago, otherwise how did I let us into the shed…?’
Khari looked up and Molineaux saw his eyes peering through the gate. Their eyes locked in the same instant that the padlock on Molineaux’s collar came free. Khari patted Tobias on the shoulder and pointed through the gate at Molineaux.
‘Kill him. I’ll raise the alarm.’
‘What the… Goddamn it!’ Tobias jerked the padlock off the gate just as Molineaux tore the collar from his neck and handed the keys to the next slave in the row.
As Khari disappeared, Tobias charged towards Molineaux, reaching for the pistol holstered at his side. Molineaux ran to meet him. The two of them clashed just as the pistol came out of its holster, and they struggled for a moment with the gun between them. Molineaux managed to force the muzzle down towards the ground and it went off with a flash that was blinding in the darkness of the shed. He broke free of Tobias’s grip and threw him towards the row of chained slaves. One of them stood up to receive him, looped his fetters over the slaver’s head and drew the chain hard against his throat. Tobias gurgled horribly as the slave throttled him.
‘I’m going after Khari…’ Molineaux told the slaves, and then gestured dismissively and turned and ran for the gate. ‘Ah, what the hell. You can’t understand a word I say anyhow.’
He emerged from the shed in time to see Khari sprinting towards the entrance of the stockade. The guards silhouetted on the catwalk peered down into the darkness below, trying to work out what was going on. One of them called down in Portuguese.
‘Sound the alarm!’ shouted Khari. ‘Slave rebellion!’ He reached the gate of the stockade and hammered on it. The gate was opened, and Molineaux saw two guards standing there in the moonlight with muskets in their hands. Khari shouted something at them in Portuguese and dodged past.
The guards raised the stocks of their muskets to their shoulders and levelled them at Molineaux. His eyes widened, and he threw himself behind the shed just as the muskets flashed and two bullets thrummed in his direction.
He rolled over on the compacted earth, picked himself up and ran around the far side of the shed nearest the main gate. The guards there were still trying to reload their muskets. Molineaux charged towards them, his naked feet pounding the earth. One of them raised his musket and fired. Molineaux swerved and felt the bullet sing past the side of his head. The other was still ramming his next shot home with the ramrod when Molineaux reached him.
The seaman snatched the musket from his hands and smashed the butt against the side of the guard’s head. The guard went down, and Molineaux turned the musket on his companion, shooting him through the chest with both ramrod and ball at point-blank range.
The guards on the catwalk were shooting down into the stockade now, but not at Molineaux. The slaves were pouring out of the first shed, one of them unlocking the gate to the next and disappearing inside with Tobias’s keys. Molineaux snatched a Bowie knife from the belt of one of the guards and went after Khari. Emerging from the stockade he glanced around, wondering which way the so-called Prince of the Leopard Men had gone. The tolling of the alarm bell soon told him.
The bell hung from a wooden pin between two tall upright posts on the next island. Molineaux sprinted across the bridge. Already the guards were pouring out of the barracks to suppress the rebellion. He cursed himself for his stupidity. Armed with muskets, they would easily slaughter the slaves.
Molineaux’s one consolation was that he would at least be able to kill Khari.
But as he drew near to Khari the leopard prince turned and saw him. Molineaux slashed at him with the knife, but Khari caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm up into the small of his back. Molineaux cried out and dropped the knife, and Khari threw him towards the reeds which lined the bank of the nearest waterway.
Molineaux rolled over, stood up quickly and turned to meet Khari’s next attack. Khari had picked up the knife and now he advanced on Molineaux, taking his time. ‘I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you,’ he snarled as the two of them circled. He lunged, slashing at Molineaux’s throat. The Englishman leaped back and landed amongst the reeds on a mud bank. Khari came at him unhesitatingly and thrust at his stomach. Molineaux tried to catch him by the wrist, but the thrust was only a feint and Khari at once followed it up by slashing Molineaux across the chest. He hardly felt a thing other than a slight burning sensation, but when he glanced down at himself he could see a thin cut across his chest weeping blood.
Khari moved in for the kill.
Madison would have been less than human not to have turned his head when the first shot sounded from the direction of the stockade. An opportunity like that came along once in what would be a very short lifetime if one was careless enough to let it slip past. Killigrew seized it in both hands, along with the pistol Madison held to his head. He pushed the muzzle aside and the two of them struggled chest-to-chest for a moment. Killigrew twisted Madison around until the gun pointed at the stack of powder cartridges outside the bunker. He pressed down on Madison’s trigger finger and the revolver discharged its single remaining shot harmlessly into one of the cartridges.
Snarling with rage, Madison threw the gun away and seized Killigrew by the throat. As his hands crushed his windpipe, Killigrew saw the slaver’s eyes flicker past his head, and glancing at the ground he saw Salazar’s shadow in the moonlight, poised to swing the cutlass at his back.
Killigrew whirled Madison around as a human shield. The slave captain gasped as the heavy blade bit deep into his spine. Then his legs crumpled and he fell to his knees. Killigrew watched him without compassion. ‘Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one to two,’ he said coldly.
Madison puckered his brow. ‘Ecclesiastes…?’
‘“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die”.’
Madison nodded, and died.
Salazar stared down at Madison’s body, and then levelled the point of the cutlass at Killigrew’s throat. ‘You are going to spend a long, long time dying for that, Mr Killigrew.’
Killigrew tried not to stare as behind Salazar, one of Sampson’s men picked up the powder cartridge that had been pierced by the bullet from the pistol. As the man carried the cartridge on his shoulder, he was oblivious to the gunpowder which spilled out of the bullet-hole and left a trail in his wake. ‘Do I get a last request?’ Killigrew asked Salazar.
‘Such as?’
‘A last cigar.’
Salazar shook his head. ‘My cigars are back at the house, and I don’t intend to give you a chance to think up some new trickery while I send someone to fetch one.’
The man carried the powder cartridge to the cannon closest to where Killigrew and Salazar stood, only ten feet away.
Two more shots sounded in quick succession from the direction of the stockade, followed by a whole fusillade, but Salazar did not take his eyes off Killigrew for a moment. ‘Mr Sampson, he so good as to send someone to find out what all the shooting is about,’ he called impatiently.
‘Aye, aye, sir. You heard him, Caspar. Go down to the stockade and find out what the problem is.’ One of Sampson’s men nodded and ran off as the alarm bell sounded. The rest of them ran out the guns and aimed them at the frigate anchored beyond the bar.
‘We’re ready to fire, sir,’ reported Sampson.
Killigrew glanced to where Madison had thrown the revolver. It lay between him and the trail of powder leading back to the stack of cartridges outside the bunker. But Salazar stood between Killigrew and the revolver with a cutlass in his hand.
‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Salazar snapped over his shoulder at Sampson.
Killigrew ducked underneath the blade of the cutlass and dived for the revolver. He snatched it up, rolled over and came to a halt by the trail of gunpowder.
Salazar whirled around. He swung the cutlass but the blade met only air.
Pointing the muzzle at the charcoal-grey dust, Killigrew cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. The cartridge in the chamber fired and spat flames down the barrel. The trail of gunpowder sparked and ignited at once.
‘Look out!’ shouted Sampson, as a white flame burned rapidly down the trail and the air filled with acrid smoke.
‘Will someone please put that fire out?’ Salazar snapped in exasperation, swinging the cutlass back over his shoulder to aim a blow at Killigrew’s neck. Killigrew threw the revolver at his head. It struck Salazar in the middle of the forehead and he blinked once and went down.
Sampson tried to stamp out the burning trail of gunpowder as it raced towards the stack of cartridges outside the bunker; then he thought better of it and turned and ran for his life. So did his men.
Killigrew picked himself up and ran to the wall, vaulting over it. He dropped about fifteen feet and landed heavily amongst some bushes. He clasped his hands over his head and waited for the explosion.
Seconds came and went. Nothing happened. Perhaps the gunpowder trail had not reached as far as the cartridges. Killigrew unclasped his arms and glanced up in disappointment.
On the quarter-deck of the Thor, Lieutenant Masterson watched as the last of the frigate’s boats was swung back aboard in the davits and the men went below to man the guns. He reached for his watch for the sixteenth time in the past hour, only to remember yet again that he had loaned it to Killigrew.
‘Three minutes to two bells, Lieutenant,’ said Captain Crichton, seeing the motion. ‘We’ll be on time. We’d better pray that Killigrew, Reynolds and the others got out of there.’
‘They know what they’re doing,’ Masterson said tightly, hoping it was true.
‘And the consequences of failure,’ agreed Crichton.
The ports on the gun deck were opened and the long guns loaded and run out. ‘Ready when you give the word, sir,’ reported the gunner.
‘Very good, Mr Andrews,’ said Crichton, and checked his watch again. ‘One minute…’
There was a bright flash from the coast, and everyone turned with a gasp. A moment later there came a terrific boom as a cloud of fire mushroomed up from behind the low ridge above the beach. The roar of the explosion echoed with a rumble like thunder off the hills behind the barracoon. A vast cloud rose slowly into the night sky.
‘What in God’s name was that?’ spluttered Masterson.
Crichton smiled. ‘That, Lieutenant, I believe to have been Mr Killigrew’s handiwork.’
At the foot of the wall, the flash of the explosion was blinding, as bright as the sun, and the blast was deafening. Killigrew hurriedly clamped his arms over his head once more and rolled in against the foot of the wall as the flames shot out over his head with a roar. The very earth seemed to shake around him, and then the wall crumbled and cracked. Chunks of masonry rained down on the slope of the escarpment, bouncing and spinning amongst the undergrowth, and one of the cannons crashed down inches from where Killigrew was huddled.
The roar faded slowly as dust sheeted down from above and thick smoke filled the still air. As it slowly disseminated, Killigrew glanced up and saw only flaming wreckage where the battery had previously glowered over the beach. It took him all of his self-control not to whoop with exultation in an undignified manner.
But it was not over yet. Out at sea, he could see the Thor waiting to do its share of the destruction. He glanced at his watch. One minute to one: and Miss Chance was still locked in her room in the palazzo, right at the heart of the barracoon. He scrambled up the rubble of the shattered wall to where the battery had stood. A huge, charred crater marked where the cartridges had been stacked, and the bunker had been completely flattened. There was no sign of anyone except for one or two grisly remains of those who had not managed to get clear of the explosion.
An echoing boom sounded from the Thor, and he turned to see a great bank of cloud rising from her side. A split second later the scream of a dozen shells hurtling through the air filled his ears. He threw himself flat on the ground as the shells screeched overhead, and a moment later a vast wall of flames burst out of the ground, completely obscuring the rest of the barracoon from his sight. The multiple explosions seemed even louder than the stack of cartridges going off, and chunks of soil and mud rained down all around him.
He did not wait for the dust to settle but at once got up and ran into the cloud of smoke. If the Thor’s gunners were up to snuff – and he had a feeling they would be – then he had about one minute before they reloaded and fired again.
The first shells had left no trace of the bridge which led to the central island, and precious little trace of the watercourse it had crossed. Killigrew stumbled through the mud and sprinted across the grass to the palazzo. The door was wide open. He dashed up the steps and inside. A moment later a blade swung at his head. He ducked down, rolled over on the marble floor, and twisted in time to see Salazar standing there with the cutlass still in his hand. The slaver’s clothes were torn and scorched and his face was blackened, but he did not appear to have suffered any kind of serious injury; he had the devil’s own luck, Killigrew mused grimly.
‘I hope you weren’t thinking of depriving me of my guest,’ said Salazar, swinging the cutlass as he advanced.
In the distance, Killigrew heard the sporadic boom of the Thor’s guns as her men fired independently, as soon as they were ready. Once again the air was filled with the screech of shells. One landed on the lawn in front of the palazzo. There was a blinding flash followed by a roar, and the windows all exploded inwards. Killigrew flinched as shards of glass flew across the room.
Salazar, who had instinctively ducked, straightened and resumed his advance. He charged forwards suddenly, hacking at Killigrew’s head, and Killigrew barely ducked aside in time. Salazar slashed at Killigrew, the point of the cutlass slicing through his shirt and scoring a line of blood from his shoulder.
Molineaux and Khari broke off their desperate struggle for a moment to gape in astonishment at the great plume of flame which rose up from where the battery had been.
Molineaux was the first to recover from the initial shock. He lunged forwards and seized Khari by the wrist. Khari stumbled under the onslaught, his feet slipping on the mud-bank, but he quickly rallied and twisted Molineaux this way and that. The leopard prince was easily the stronger, and he grinned as he forced Molineaux over backwards. Molineaux sprawled in the mud and Khari fell on him, plunging the Bowie knife down towards his chest. Molineaux rolled to one side and managed to kick Khari in the ribs, but without any appreciable result.
As Molineaux tried to crawl away, Khari picked himself up and stood over him. Molineaux rolled on to his back and seized a fistful of mud, staring up at where Khari towered over him and feeling like David facing Goliath. He flung the mud at the giant’s face.
Blinded, Khari grunted and raised an arm to wipe his eyes. Molineaux jumped to his feet and leaped into the air, delivering a flying kick to Khari’s chest. As Molineaux fell to the mud once more, Khari staggered backwards. His feet scrabbled for purchase in the slippery mud and he fell into the water with a terrific splash. The low profiles of crocodiles cruising through the channel at once changed direction.
Molineaux would have liked to stay around to see Khari’s grisly demise – if only to make sure the crocodiles did not turn their noses up at him – but at that moment the Thor’s first salvo landed. The sky lit up orange, and he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet.
A crackle of muskets sounded behind him: not the sporadic firing of the guards, but a well-disciplined volley. He turned and saw a squad of ten marines there, giving the slaves covering fire as they ran for the canoes. The slavers turned and ran, only to find themselves face to face with another squad of marines. They threw down their muskets and raised their hands.
Feeling a wave of relief wash over him, Molineaux stumbled down towards the stockade. It was the first time he had been glad to see marines. So it was Killigrew who had come back, and he had brought some friends with him.
He had barely got as far as the alarm bell, however, when he felt burning pain explode through his right thigh. His leg crumpled beneath him and he fell against the wooden posts supporting the bell. Sobbing with agony, he glanced down and saw the haft of the Bowie knife embedded in his leg. He turned and saw Khari advancing once more. The leopard prince leaned over him, grabbed the haft of the knife and twisted it in the wound. Molineaux screamed in torment. Khari pulled the knife out with one hand, grabbed Molineaux with the other, hoisted him to his feet and slammed him back against one of the posts. He raised the knife above his head to plunge it into Molineaux’s chest.
With one final effort, Molineaux lifted his knee into Khari’s crotch and broke free. Khari grunted and brought the knife arcing down. The tip slashed across Molineaux’s shoulder blade, and then his leg gave way beneath him and he fell. He reached out to grab something and caught hold of the bell-rope. But the pin supporting the bell had not been designed to take the weight of a man. The bell gave a half-hearted clang which broke off, along with the bell itself. Khari frowned at the sound and looked up. Molineaux stared in horrified fascination as the heavy brass bell crushed Khari’s head like an eggshell. He winced.
Then the shells of the next salvo began to fall across the barracoon, shooting great plumes of fire into the night sky and hurling clumps of earth through the air. One shell landed in a nearby mud-bank and Molineaux was spattered with mud.
He started to crawl towards the landing stage where the marines were rounding up the slavers beyond the extreme range of the frigate’s guns.
But his progress was agonisingly slow. He was not even halfway when the shells of the third salvo rained fire on the barracoon. He wondered if Madison was able to see this; if he had been, the slave captain would doubtless have had some pithy Biblical quote about a hail of brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah.
He felt footsteps pounding the earth behind him and twisted in panic, wondering if Khari had somehow managed to survive having his skull smashed in, but it was only a Kruman wearing a top hat. Molineaux recognised him from somewhere, and after a moment’s thought placed him as the interpreter who had arrived at the village with the witch doctor the day Prince Khari had attacked.
In the darkness the Kruman almost ran straight past Molineaux on his way to the stockade. ‘Hey!’ Molineaux called out after him. ‘Don’t leave me!’
The Kruman twisted and skidded to a halt. ‘You Killigrew friend?’
Molineaux nodded, and ducked his head as another shell burst nearby. ‘Was it Killigrew who arranged the fireworks?’
The Kruman grinned and nodded, and helped him to his feet. ‘Come, we go, plenty quick.’
‘Wait a minute, what about Miss Chance?’
‘White puss in big house. Mas’er Killigrew, he go fetchee. Come, we go!’
‘What about Killigrew? Will he be all right?’
‘Mas’er Killigrew worry ’bout Mas’er Killigrew. You, me, worry ’bout me, you. He be fine.’
Molineaux allowed Tip-Top to help him down towards the landing stage. ‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘He certainly seems to have a talent for survival.’
The whole house shuddered as one of the shells scored a direct hit on the roof. The chandelier over the receiving room shivered and tinkled, and the ornate rococo moulding fell in pieces from the ceiling. A big chunk of plaster hit the marble floor between Killigrew and Salazar.
Killigrew still backed away before the relentless sweeps of the cutlass in Salazar’s hand. He looked around in desperation for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. He bounded on to the mahogany table and kicked the candelabra at Salazar’s head.
Salazar ducked to one side and the candelabra crashed against the wall before falling to the floor. ‘I should have finished you off when I had the chance,’ he snarled, and swung at Killigrew’s knees. ‘This is all your doing.’
Killigrew jumped over the slashing blade. Salazar leaped on to the table. Killigrew backed away until he came to the far end of the long table and almost stepped out into space. He teetered and barely managed to regain his balance.
Salazar laughed. ‘No place left to run to, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Then come and get me.’
Salazar lifted the cutlass and flexed his fingers around the hilt, clearly wondering if Killigrew had any more tricks up his sleeve. Then he charged the length of the table, swinging the blade of the cutlass behind his head. Unarmed, Killigrew waited to receive the attack.
Salazar swung. Killigrew ducked at the last moment and the blade swished above his head.
Salazar’s momentum kept him going until he careered into his opponent. Killigrew caught him around the waist and straightened, flinging him over his shoulder. Salazar screamed, and abruptly fell silent.
Killigrew turned. It had been his plan to throw Salazar into the fireplace, but his aim had been too high. Instead Salazar’s rhinoceros head had killed its killer five years too late, its horn piercing his throat underneath the jaw. Now Salazar hung grotesquely over the fireplace, the final trophy in his own collection. His arms hung limply by his sides. After a few seconds’ pause the cutlass finally slipped from his lifeless fingers and clattered to the floor.
Another shell burst outside. Killigrew jumped down from the table and sprinted up the stairs. ‘Suzannah!’
‘In here!’ She hammered against the door. ‘The door’s locked, I’m trapped inside!’
‘Stand back!’ He lashed out at the edge of the door with his foot, just below the lock. Agony exploded in his ankle, but the door snapped open. Miss Chance ran out into his arms.
Another shell smashed into the house and a huge chunk of masonry crashed to the landing. The shuddering impact hurled them both to the floor and showered them with dust. ‘Are you all right?’ Killigrew asked her.
She nodded. They got up and made for the stairs. ‘What happened to Salazar?’ she asked.
‘Don’t ask,’ he told her. But she glanced to her left as they went down the stairs. The lawn in front of the palazzo seemed to be on fire, and the flames cast a hellish glow over the grisly scene of Salazar’s death.
He tucked her head against his shoulder. ‘Don’t look.’
‘I already did.’
‘Come on. We’ll go out the back.’ He pushed her through the door to the dining room. They left the house as the last echoes of the bombardment died away and made their way down to the beach where Masterson and a squad of seamen were landing in one of the launches to help the marines round up any surviving slavers.