Free The Monsoon by Wilbur Smith Page B

exclaimed. He had not heard that name in five years.
    “Where is he?”
    “On his farm near Bristol. He bought it with the prize money he won on board your ship, Captain.” Ned Tyler was one of the best men Hal had ever sailed with, and he marvelled yet again at how small and close-knit was the brotherhood of the sea.
    “So what do you say, then, Wilson? Will you sign the watch-bill on the Seraph?”
    “I would like it well to sail with you, Captain.” Hal felt a lift of pleasure at his acceptance.
    “Tell my boatswain Daniel Fisher to find lodgings for you until we can move into our quarters on the ship. Then you can exercise your penmanship by composing a letter to your uncle Ned. Tell him to stop milking cows and shovelling muck, and get on his sea boots again. I need him.” After Wilson had clumped down the narrow wooden stairs to the parlour below, Hal moved to the small window that overlooked the cobbled stableyard. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, and watched Aboli instruct the twins with the blade. Guy sat on a pile of hay with Dorian next to him. He must have finished his turn for he was red in the face and sweating in dark patches through his shirt. Dorian was patting his back in congratulation.
    Hal watched while Aboli exercised Tom in the manual of arms, the six parries and the full repertoire of cuts and thrusts. Tom was sweating lightly when at last Aboli faced him and nodded to begin the bout.
    “On guard, KlebeP They fought half a dozen inconclusive engagements.
    Hal could see that Aboli was moderating his power to match Tom, but the boy was tiring and slowing down when Aboli called to him, “Last one, Klebe. This time I mean to hit you!” Tom’s expression hardened, and he went on guard in quarte, point high, watching Aboli’s dark eyes to read his move before he launched. They touched sabres and Aboli came at him, right foot leading, graceful as a dancer, a feint into the high line and then, as Tom parried fierce and made the riposte, Aboli fluidly recoiled and made a counter-riposte in the line of engagement, fast as a striking viper. Tom attempted the correct parry low quarte, but his hand still lacked an inch of speed. There was a slither of steel over steel and Aboli’s blade stopped an inch from his nipple as it showed through the white shirt.
    “Faster, Klebe. Like a hawkV Aboli admonished him, as Tom recovered smoothly, but his wrist was pronated and his blade slightly off line. It seemed he had left an opening for a cut to the right shoulder. Tom was furious and scowling at the hit against him, but he spotted the opening.
    Even from the highmindow Hal saw him make the mistake of signalling his move with a slight lift of his chin.
    “No, Tom, no!” he whispered. Aboli was dangling the bait that had snared Hal himself, so often, when he was Tom’s age. With consummate judgement of distance Aboli had set himself up two inches beyond the reach of Tom’s cut to the shoulder: he would hit him again if Tom tried for it.
    Hal crowed with delight as his son took a double step, a feint for the shoulder, but then with the agility of a monkey and extraordinary strength of wrist for his age, he changed his angle of attack and went instead for Aboli’s hip.
    “You almost had himV Hal whispered, as Aboli was forced to extreme extension to protect himself with a circular parry that gathered Tom’s blade and swept it back into the original line of engagement.
    Aboli stepped back and broke off the engagement. He shook his head so that drops of sweat flew from his bald head, and flashed his teeth in a huge white smile.
    “Good, Klebe. Never accept an enemy’s invitation. Good! You came close to me there.” He placed one arm around Tom’s shoulders.
    “That’s enough for one day. Master Walsh is waiting for you to take up the pen rather than the sabre.”
    “One more hit, AboliV Tom pleaded.
    “This time I will have you, fair and square.”
    But Aboli pushed the boy in the