Julian Stockwin - Conquest

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.

‘ Gau ch’oh! ’ Wong growled in exasperation. He pushed Stirk aside, placing himself squarely against the palisade and reaching with his big hands up and out. Carefully adjusting and testing his grip, he paused for a heartbeat. Then, with a roar of grunting, he heaved back mightily. The fabric shivered and bowed. Wong held his grip and, leaning outward, climbed up and jolted backwards. Once – twice – and, with a thunderous crack, first one, then another of the uprights gave at the base.

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?’ Quickmatch burned at nearly the same pace as an open powder-train – as fast as a man could run. When it started, they had seconds to flee for their lives.

He jabbed the glowing stub at the quickmatch. It caught in a bright fizzle and disappeared as a red glow into the tube, racing unerringly towards its destiny. ‘Go!’ Stirk blurted, and careless of noise, they hurled themselves out into the bush.

When it came the detonation was cataclysmic, the livid flash picking out every detail of the scene, the fiery column of destruction reaching high into the night sky before it was hidden in roiling smoke, the gigantic blast lifting both men off their feet and sending them sprawling. Then round and about there came the patter and thud of falling fragments.

Disoriented by the numbing roar, Stirk staggered to his feet and, urgently gesturing to Wong, lumbered off towards the river and the vital jetty. Still half blinded, he nearly knocked over a silent figure, a white man, standing over another. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said automatically – then started, as though he’d seen a ghost. ‘Er, Mr Renzi? Ye’d better have it away on y’r toes wi’ us, sir. We’ve t’ be at the jetty before—’

‘Thank you, but first I’d be obliged if you’d relieve me of this gentleman and present him to Mr Kydd with my compliments. Tell him this is their ringleader. I’ve, er, other business to attend to – I’ll be at the jetty presently.’

Gaping, they watched him hurry off.

Kydd was warned by the fog-horn and, knowing attention was away from the river, positioned his boats in the outer darkness. The thunderous explosion shattered the stillness like the end of the world.

‘Give way, y’ swabs!’ he roared. The launch shot forward, towards the shore – and the general pandemonium. Warriors running aimlessly, shrieking their fear, small fires breaking out on all sides where burning fragments had landed. The jetty could just be made out but no anxious figures waiting.

‘Hold water!’ he ordered. They lay to fifty yards offshore, fearful that once they were seen, the panic could easily turn into a killing vengeance. In a frenzy they searched the riverbanks for their shipmates. Nothing.

Gilbey’s orders were to stay out and cover their approach with his carronade. Ashore, the disorder seemed to be subsiding – at any moment the horde could turn on them. Kydd left the sternsheets and scrambled forward to stand in the bows at the gun, peering to see.

‘Sir!’ one of the oarsmen said urgently. ‘Over t’ larb’d!’

It was clearly Stirk, and the others with him, struggling along towards the jetty and dragging another – but from the opposite side came a roar of anger. They’d been seen – and it was clear they were not going to make it to the jetty before they were overwhelmed. After all their immense bravery, to be slaughtered in sight of their salvation.

‘Ready the carronade,’ Kydd said steadily. In the dark, without the possibility of a reload, there were two shots and two only available between both boats.

‘ Fire! ’

The crash of the eighteen-pounder from out in the night with its heightened gun-flash was shocking as a heavy round-shot was sent skipping and slamming over the water to end smashing and rampaging through the undergrowth – a very visible blast of terror that renewed the panic.

‘Go for your lives!’ The oarsmen needed no urging and the big launch flew in towards the jetty.

‘Move!’ bellowed Kydd, frantically beckoning to the waiting figures.

Stirk roughly pushed in the stranger, who fell protesting into Kydd’s outstretched hands. ‘Who the devil—?’

‘Y’r ringleader, if y’ please, sir,’ Stirk said laconically, urging in his men before clambering in himself.