Free Nobody's Slave by Tim Vicary Page A
Authors: Tim Vicary
shoulder.
An arrow hummed past his ear, dropping a man in his tracks. Tom bent to help him, but he was dead already. He heard a whoop to his left, and another further ahead. Despite the suffocating heat, Tom felt a chill between his shoulder blades, and the truth froze him like a winter's wind. It was they, not the Africans, who were being hunted now!
His feet moved slower and his breath came harsher, but still he ran. Then suddenly, there it was - the end of the path, and in the dazzling sunlight on the little beach, a melee of men, struggling, yelling, fighting for their lives. Tom ducked into the melee, glancing desperately about him to find the quickest way to drag Simon to the pinnace. He saw a tall African, painted all over in fierce patterns of red and white, plunge his spear into a sailor's side as he lifted his arm to strike; saw John Hawkins lunge again and again with his rapier; saw a sailor, struggling futilely in his own net while an African pierced him with a spear; saw John Sanders the bosun knocking one of the black men out of a boat with an oar; saw Francis, cutting with his sword at an African's spear.
Tom saw all these things, but there was one thing he missed. He did not see the lanky, sharp-eyed black warrior, standing cunningly by a tree on the edge of the conflict. The man lifted his bow again and again, each time a sailor stood clear for a second from the fierce mass of fighting Africans. Each time he fired, a sailor screamed, or spun round in agony.
Simon saw him. Just as they were about to climb into the pinnace he yelled, and pushed Tom back, so that Tom stumbled and fell, with his cousin collapsing on top of him.
For a moment Tom’s head was underwater, but he wrenched himself up, spluttering, cursing Simon for holding him down, and tried to shove him away. But Simon's body was strangely heavy, and rigid - twitching as though he had the palsy. He pushed Simon off him, and felt his wet hair crawl on his scalp as he saw what had happened.
An arrow had gone clean through Simon's neck, so that the feather stuck out one side, and the barb the other. His young cousin’s neck was arched, trembling, the unconscious muscles trying to force the arrow out; but it was useless - an artery was pierced, and Simon's life's blood was already pulsing out, staining the sand and water by the bows of the pinnace.
After a minute or so Simon opened his eyes. He saw Tom, and tried to speak; but just then a rush of sailors clambered on board, trampling over them both in their hurry, and Simon fell unconscious again from loss of blood. Tom cradled him in his arms, ignoring the hubbub all round. He called his name frantically, and tried to staunch the ceaseless flow of blood with his shirt, but it was no use. Simon was dead before the first boat was launched.
7. The Allies
‘... A ND THUS we do consign them to the deep.’
The Admiral's strong, mellow voice fell silent. He looked up from the prayer book, and nodded to Master Barrett.
‘Heave 'em over, then, lads. Steady does it. One at a time.’
The two men who stood at either end of the first of the nine long bundles of sailcloth bent, lifted their burden, and with one easy movement swung it out over the rail. There was a splash, the men stood back, and the next bundle was lifted.
Tom stood fourth in the line, at the end of the shortest bundle. His feet were a few inches from the bulge of Simon's head, and the other round bulge next to it, which was one of the cannonballs sewn into the shroud to take the body to the bottom. The sailor at the other end of the shroud was no special friend of Simon, but then he had had few friends on board. Only his cousin Francis, who was busy with his own burials on the Judith , and Tom, whose life he had saved with his own.
The third splash lifted a few drops of spray onto the hot deck, and it was Simon's turn. Tom and the young sailor bent, and as they lifted, Tom thought how strangely stiff the shroud was, as though it
An arrow hummed past his ear, dropping a man in his tracks. Tom bent to help him, but he was dead already. He heard a whoop to his left, and another further ahead. Despite the suffocating heat, Tom felt a chill between his shoulder blades, and the truth froze him like a winter's wind. It was they, not the Africans, who were being hunted now!
His feet moved slower and his breath came harsher, but still he ran. Then suddenly, there it was - the end of the path, and in the dazzling sunlight on the little beach, a melee of men, struggling, yelling, fighting for their lives. Tom ducked into the melee, glancing desperately about him to find the quickest way to drag Simon to the pinnace. He saw a tall African, painted all over in fierce patterns of red and white, plunge his spear into a sailor's side as he lifted his arm to strike; saw John Hawkins lunge again and again with his rapier; saw a sailor, struggling futilely in his own net while an African pierced him with a spear; saw John Sanders the bosun knocking one of the black men out of a boat with an oar; saw Francis, cutting with his sword at an African's spear.
Tom saw all these things, but there was one thing he missed. He did not see the lanky, sharp-eyed black warrior, standing cunningly by a tree on the edge of the conflict. The man lifted his bow again and again, each time a sailor stood clear for a second from the fierce mass of fighting Africans. Each time he fired, a sailor screamed, or spun round in agony.
Simon saw him. Just as they were about to climb into the pinnace he yelled, and pushed Tom back, so that Tom stumbled and fell, with his cousin collapsing on top of him.
For a moment Tom’s head was underwater, but he wrenched himself up, spluttering, cursing Simon for holding him down, and tried to shove him away. But Simon's body was strangely heavy, and rigid - twitching as though he had the palsy. He pushed Simon off him, and felt his wet hair crawl on his scalp as he saw what had happened.
An arrow had gone clean through Simon's neck, so that the feather stuck out one side, and the barb the other. His young cousin’s neck was arched, trembling, the unconscious muscles trying to force the arrow out; but it was useless - an artery was pierced, and Simon's life's blood was already pulsing out, staining the sand and water by the bows of the pinnace.
After a minute or so Simon opened his eyes. He saw Tom, and tried to speak; but just then a rush of sailors clambered on board, trampling over them both in their hurry, and Simon fell unconscious again from loss of blood. Tom cradled him in his arms, ignoring the hubbub all round. He called his name frantically, and tried to staunch the ceaseless flow of blood with his shirt, but it was no use. Simon was dead before the first boat was launched.
7. The Allies
‘... A ND THUS we do consign them to the deep.’
The Admiral's strong, mellow voice fell silent. He looked up from the prayer book, and nodded to Master Barrett.
‘Heave 'em over, then, lads. Steady does it. One at a time.’
The two men who stood at either end of the first of the nine long bundles of sailcloth bent, lifted their burden, and with one easy movement swung it out over the rail. There was a splash, the men stood back, and the next bundle was lifted.
Tom stood fourth in the line, at the end of the shortest bundle. His feet were a few inches from the bulge of Simon's head, and the other round bulge next to it, which was one of the cannonballs sewn into the shroud to take the body to the bottom. The sailor at the other end of the shroud was no special friend of Simon, but then he had had few friends on board. Only his cousin Francis, who was busy with his own burials on the Judith , and Tom, whose life he had saved with his own.
The third splash lifted a few drops of spray onto the hot deck, and it was Simon's turn. Tom and the young sailor bent, and as they lifted, Tom thought how strangely stiff the shroud was, as though it