Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur - Страница 4
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"Not quite as handy as a cricket ball, but-" murmured Sebastian and came to his feet. Using the short run up he delivered the fast ball with which he had shattered the Yorkshire first innings the previous year. It had the same effect on the Arab first innings. The coconut whirred and cracked against the skull of one of the approaching assassins and the rest retired in confusion.
"Now send the men," roared Sebastian and bowled a short lifter that hastened the retreat.
He selected another coconut and was about to deliver that also when there was a flash and a report from aft, and something howled over Sebastian's head. Hastily he ducked behind the sack of coconuts.
"My God, they've got a gun up there!" Sebastian remembered then the ancient muzzle-loading Jezail he had seen the captain polishing lovingly on their first day out from Zanzibar, and he felt his anger rising in earnest.
He jumped to his feet and hurled his next coconut with fury.
"Fight fair, you dirty swine! "he yelled.
There was a delay while the dhow captain went through the complicated process of loading his piece. Then a cannon report, a burst of flame, and another pot leg howled over Sebastian's head.
Through the dark hours before dawn the lively exchange of jeers and curses, of coconuts and pot legs continued.
Sebastian more than held his own for he scored four howls of pain and a yelp, while the dhow captain succeeded only in shooting away a great deal of his own standing rigging.
But as the light of the new day increased, so Sebastian's advantage waned. The Arab captain's shooting improved to such an extent that Sebastian spent most of his time crouching behind the sack of coconuts. Sebastian was nearly exhausted. His right arm and shoulder ached unmercifully, and he could hear the first stealthy advance of the Arab crew as they crept down towards his hide. In daylight they could surround him and use their numbers to drag him down.
While he rested for the final effort, Sebastian looked out at the morning. It was a red dawn, angry and beautiful through the swamp mists so the water glowed with a pink sheen and the mangroves stood very dark around the ship.
Something splashed farther up the channel, a water bird perhaps. Sebastian looked for it without interest, and heard it splash again and then again. He stirred and sat up a little straighter. The sound was too regular for that of a bird or a fish.
Then around the bend in the channel, from behind the wall of mangroves, driven on by urgent paddles, shot a dug-out canoe. Standing in the bow with a double-barrelled elephant gun under his arm and a clay pipe sticking out of his red face, was Flynn O'Flynn.
"What the hell's going on here?" he roared. "Are you fighting a goddamned war? I've been waiting a week for you lotV
"Look out, Flynn!" Sebastian yelled a warning. "That swine has got a gun!"
The Arab captain had jumped to his feet and was looking around uncertainly. Long ago he had regretted his impulse to rid himself of the Englishman and escape from this evil swamp, and now his misgivings were truly justified. Having committed himself, however, there was only one course open to him. He lifted the Jezail to his shoulder and aimed at O'Flynn in the canoe. The discharge blew a long grey spurt of powder from the Muzzle, and the pot leg lifted a burst of spray from the surface of the water beyond the canoe. The echoes of the shot were drowned by the bellow of O'Flynn's rifle. He fired without moving the pipe from his mouth and the narrow dug-out rocked dangerously with the recoil.
The heavy bullet picked up the Arab captain's scrawny body, his robe fluttered like a piece of old paper and his turban flew from his head and unwound in mid-air as he was flung clear of the rail to drop with a tall splash alongside.
He floated face down, trapped air ballooning his robe about him and then he drifted away slowly on the sluggish Current.
His crew, stunned and silent, stood by the rail and watched him depart.
Dismissing the neat execution as though it had never happened, O'Flynn, glared up at Sebastian and roared, "You're a week late. I haven't been able to do a goddamned thing until you got here. Now let's get the flag up and start doing some workV
The formal annexation of Flynn O'Flynn's island took place in the relative cool of the following morning. It had taken some hours for Flynn to convince Sebastian of the necessity of occupying the island for the British crown, and he succeeded only by casting Sebastian in the role of empire builder. He made some flattering comparisons between Clive of India and Sebastian Oldsmith, of Liverpool.
The next problem was the choice of a name. This stirred up a little Anglo-American enmity, with Flynn O'Flynn campaigning aggressively for "New Boston'. Sebastian was horrified, his patriotic ardour burned brightly.
"Now hold on a jiffy, old chap," he protested.
"What's wrong with it? You just tell me what's wrong with id'
"Well, first of all this is going to be one of His Britannic Majesty's possessions, you know."
"New Boston," O'Flynn repeated. "That sounds good.
That sounds real good."
Sebastian shuddered. "I think it would be well, not quite suitable. I mean, Boston was the place where they had that tea thing, you know."
The argument raged more savagely as Flynn lowered the level in the gin bottle, until finally Sebastian stood up from the carpet on the floor of the dhow cabin, his eyes blazing with patriotic outrage. "If you would care to step outside, sir," he enunciated with care as he stood over the older man, "we can settle this matter." The dignity of the challenge was spoiled by the low roof of the cabin which made it necessary for Sebastian to stoop.
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