NEMESIS

WITH TOM HARPER

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 First published in the UK in 2023 by
ZAFFRE
An imprint of Bonnier Books UK
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square,
London WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden

Copyright © Orion Mintaka, 2023

Author photograph © Hendre Louw

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of the publisher.

The right of Wilbur Smith to be identified as Author of this

work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and

incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-80418-013-6

Also available as an ebook and an audiobook

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Typeset by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

[Link]

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 C A PE OF G OOD H O P E , 1 806.

A
dmiral Sir Robert Courtney stood on the deck of his flag-
ship, the Nestor, and felt the huge Cape rollers surge under
the hull, the turbulence of cold Atlantic water meeting the
heat of Africa. His body moved easily with the motion. He had
been at sea since he was seventeen years old, starting as a com-
mon forecastle hand. Now he was a vice admiral of the Red, a
knight of the realm, darling of the British press, and curse of
any French captain unlucky enough to cross his path. He had
accomplished a lot in the last thirty years.
‘It seems like yesterday when we started out together,’ said the
man beside him, reading Rob’s thoughts as true as a compass.
Angus MacNeil was a barrel-chested Scotsman who had sailed
with Rob on his first voyage in the navy, and somehow contrived
to follow him aboard every vessel he’d served on since. They
had saved each other’s lives more times than either man could
remember.
Rob leaned on the rail, half listening as he stared out at the
great flat-topped bulk of Table Mountain looming above the bay.
He could almost smell its scent, though with the stiff onshore
breeze he knew he must be imagining it. Africa was where he had
been born, where he had lived all his youth until dreams of big
ships and the promise of adventure lured him away. Now, nearly
fifty, he felt a powerful urge to return, as if the dust of the conti-
nent had lodged in his bones and was at last beginning to stir. He
had lobbied the Admiralty for this command for months. Now he
was almost home.
But the Lords of the Admiralty had not sent him halfway
across the world for shore leave. He had work to do. He put the
telescope to his one good eye and swept it over the bay with a
practised motion until he found the fort. Its white walls sparkled
in the sunlight, its five corners thrust outward like spear points.

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‘My great-great-grandfather helped build those walls,’ said

Rob. He searched out the open parade ground on the shore below
the castle walls. ‘And his father was executed there by the Dutch.’
‘Then you’ve a debt to pay,’ said Angus. He swept his arm across
the horizon, where the full line of Rob’s fleet spread over nearly
ten miles of ocean: four ships of the line, two frigates and a dozen
transports, with several thousand Highland troops quartered
aboard. ‘And the men to give it back to Holland with interest.’
‘It is not Holland any more. It is the Batavian Republic,’ Rob
reproved him.
The Batavian Republic had been formed after the downfall of
the old Dutch Republic, when French revolutionary forces inter-
vened in 1795.
Angus spat over the side. ‘A turd by any other name. What’s
the matter about all this change?’
The world had been transformed out of all recognition since
Rob first emerged from his isolated childhood in the African
bush. He and Angus had cut their teeth fighting American revo-
lutionaries, but that had been the prologue for the greater contest
that had erupted ten years later, with the French revolution. First
France had been sucked into the maelstrom, then Europe, and
finally the world. For a time, it had looked as though France
might drown in the bloodbath the revolution had unleashed. But
as her cause looked lost, a charismatic soldier named Bonaparte
had emerged from the chaos to redeem his country. In less than
ten years, he had risen from cadet to general. In another five
years, he was dictator. And five years after that, he had crowned
himself emperor. Now, there was not a corner of the globe where
France and Britain did not fight for mastery.
That was why Rob was here. Cape Town was the key to the East,
to the new British empire rising in India. Holland held the Cape,
but the country had been overthrown. The Batavian Republic was
a vassal state of France, with a chokehold on Britain’s most vital
trade artery. And so the Cape had to be captured.
Rob felt a touch on his arm – lighter than the breeze that plucked
at his sleeves, but he knew it at once with a joy that had not dimmed
in all these years. His wife, Phoebe, had come up beside him. He
slipped an arm around her waist and hugged her to him.

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Many things had changed, but not his love for her, or her looks.
Even when he met her, a teenage slave abused on an American
plantation, she had had a calm self-possession beyond her years.
Despite the terrible suffering endured at the hands of cruel slave
masters all those years ago, age had made her more beautiful,
a more perfect version of the young woman she had been. Her
almond eyes were deep with love and wisdom; her soft face was
kindness itself, while her golden-brown skin bore no trace of the
storms she had weathered.
Since Rob married Phoebe, they had not spent a night apart.
The Admiralty frowned on officers bringing their wives aboard
ships; sailors swore it brought bad luck. None of it swayed Rob.
The war had kept him at sea almost continuously. If he had left
her behind, he would hardly have seen her for three months in
ten years. Life ashore was hard enough for any sailor’s wife; for
Phoebe, living in a different country and with a different skin, it
would have been intolerable.
Whatever people might think, Rob’s extraordinary run of vic-
tories had quieted both punctilious admirals and superstitious
sailors. He had become known as a lucky captain, and then a
lucky admiral; his ships were never short of volunteers. And in
the unique world of seamen, her race was irrelevant. Ships’ crews
were made up of men from every country that had a coast: Scots,
Irish, Cornishmen, Africans, Indian lascars, Chinamen, and stout
men with strange tattoos from the islands of the South Seas. Any-
where in the world that British ships called, men came aboard and
entered the Royal Navy’s bloodstream. Many men volunteered,
eager for the pay, board and the chance to travel to exotic lands,
but those who were press-ganged would arrive with nothing but
the clothes they were wearing, and sporting a bruise or two. Rob
knew how brutal the experience could be – he had been forced
into service many moons ago, and understood the men’s fears.
Now the crews loved Phoebe. She was their talisman, their
Madonna and their mother. If Rob had tried to leave her ashore,
they would have mutinied.
Phoebe shivered in his embrace. Cape Town was not a happy
memory for her.
‘The last time I was here, it was in the hold of a slave ship.’

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‘Now you are Lady Courtney. And soon, slave ships will be a
thing of the past. The Saints are planning a new bill to abolish
the trade, and they are confident that this year at last they have
the votes to pass it.’
‘The Saints’ was the nickname for a group of Members of
Parliament who had spent twenty years fighting against slavery.
Many of them were Rob’s friends, and he had been their enthu-
siastic champion. Of the considerable fortune in prize money he
had amassed during his career, much of it had been dedicated to
supporting their cause.
‘Imagine if we could turn our guns on those slavers.’
‘The French abolished slavery more than ten years ago,’ said
Phoebe.
‘Until Bonaparte brought it back,’ Rob reminded her. ‘Which is
why – among many other reasons – it will give me great pleasure
to seize Cape Town from him.’
Phoebe studied the gleaming fort. ‘It looks heavily fortified and
strongly built.’ Having been in so many battles, she had devel-
oped a captain’s eye for tactics. ‘Will you be able to manoeuvre
the ship close enough to shore for it to be in range of your guns?’
Rob kissed her. ‘Your assessment is astute. We cannot assault
the castle directly. Fortunately, I have a plan.’
He sought out his flag lieutenant, a terrier-like Welshman
named Jones.
‘My compliments to the captain. Ask him to prepare my
launch.’
Jones saluted. Phoebe arched her eyebrows.
‘I hope you are not planning anything rash?’
‘As you rightly observed, I cannot get close enough to the shore
in the flagship. I am transferring my flag aboard the Valiant.’
‘You are an admiral,’ Phoebe said, a note of concern in her
voice. ‘Your job is to let younger men fight the battles, and win
the glory.’
Rob smiled. ‘I need to be present to tell them how much bet-
ter I would have done it at their age. Besides, you know what the
Valiant’s captain is like. Impetuous, headstrong and insubordinate.
Who knows what he would do without a firm hand on his shoulder?’
‘He takes after his father,’ said Phoebe.

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‘I think that is his mother’s side.’

She let go of her hold on him.
‘If I told you to be careful, would it make any difference?’
‘If I said I will, would you believe me?’

Rob surveyed the landscape through a telescope as he sat with

Angus in the rear of the launch approaching the sloop Valiant.
Phoebe had been right: a direct assault on the castle would have
been an invitation to disaster. They needed to find a different land-
ing place. For a week, Rob’s ships had been making feints close to
shore, testing the defences and leaving the Dutch guessing where
the final assault would come. He knew from his intelligence that
the Dutch had over three hundred guns mounted on shore batter-
ies along the coast. He needed to land almost ten thousand men,
and he would not send them ashore to be slaughtered.
Rob had decided on landing on a site at Losperd’s Bay, some
sixteen miles east of Cape Town. It was far enough from the castle
that the Dutch could not reinforce the area quickly, and unpro-
tected by any permanent batteries. The drawbacks were the strong
current that swept the beach, and the high sand dunes screening
the interior. If the Dutch brought up troops, the dunes would
provide a natural defensive rampart. But as best Rob could tell,
the place was deserted.
He felt the familiar heat rising in his veins at the prospect of
action. He knew it was unbecoming for an admiral. Phoebe was
right about that, too. He should stay back, directing the fleet from
a safe distance. But some impulse forced him onwards, his rational,
strategic judgement giving way to the promise of the thrills he
used to experience in his youth: the camaraderie, the shared pur-
pose, the knife-edge between life and death. For a long time he
had been missing the visceral excitement of battle, and he knew he
had to answer its siren call. And he could never ask his men to face
danger that he would not.
The boat came alongside the sloop. For another admiral, a dif-
ferent captain might have rigged a boatswain’s chair to hoist the
flag officer aboard safely. But Rob would rather fall in the sea
and drown than be lugged aboard like livestock, and the Valiant’s
captain knew that better than anyone.

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The red vice admiral’s pennant broke out from the mast-
head as Rob came on deck. The captain saluted crisply. Then,
forgetting decorum, he stepped forward and embraced Rob
warmly.
‘Father.’
‘It is good to see you, Adam.’
Rob gripped his son’s shoulders and looked into his eyes –
the same green eyes that had flickered open in Rob’s arms as he
held a newborn baby on a stormy sea in the Bay of Biscay. He
had grown into a fine young man, Rob thought. He was a true
mix of his parents, with his mother’s irrepressibly curly hair,
his father’s ready grin, and a light-brown complexion halfway
between the two.
Though their ships had been separated by only a few miles of
ocean, they had barely seen each other on the voyage out. Before
that, years would pass between their reunions. From the moment
Adam took his warrant as midshipman, Rob had insisted he serve
under other captains.
‘My son must earn his own place in the world, as I did,’ he had
told Phoebe.
He had known the charge of nepotism would hang over
Adam’s career, however it progressed. He did not want to add
any substance to it.
But Rob had read avidly every letter from Adam. He had
scoured the Naval Gazette for reports of his son, delighting in
news of his exploits. He had watched with pride as Adam grew
from a callow midshipman to a dashing lieutenant, and now a
commander with his first ship. Only now had Rob used his rank
to bring Adam into his squadron.
It was the right time. Adam had African blood in him on both
sides, but had not set foot on the continent in nearly twenty years.
He should return to his ancestral home, to see his grandfather,
his aunt and uncles and cousins.
But first they had a battle to win.
‘Is everything prepared?’ Rob asked.
Adam frowned. ‘General Beresford was unable to land his
troops today because of the gale. He decided to move north with
the bulk of his forces and land at Saldanha Bay.’

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‘But that is a hundred miles away,’ Rob protested. ‘A hundred

miles they will have to march back, across a waterless desert.’
‘He did not consider he could make a safe landing here.’
As if to underscore Adam’s words, a wave slapped against the
side of the ship, throwing a spume of spray over both men. At
the east end of the bay, Rob could see the sea foaming around the
rocks of the razor-sharp reef that protruded from the beach.
‘Our men would be dashed to pieces in this,’ Rob conceded.
‘Scipio promises me that tomorrow the wind will change.’
Adam said it lightly, but there was a gleam of intent in his eye.
Scipio was another man Rob had helped free from slavery on
the same plantation as Phoebe. With Angus and Phoebe, Scipio
had stayed with Rob throughout his career, until Adam moved to
his first ship. Then Scipio had joined Adam, and served wherever
he was posted ever since.
‘If Scipio says the weather will change, then it assuredly will.’
Scipio had grown up on the great river deltas of West Africa.
Later, he had served as a boatman in the mazy coastal swamps
of South Carolina. He could sniff out wind and weather three
days away.
‘Will you bring the army back?’
Rob shook his head. ‘General Beresford is in command of the
army. I have to defer to him.’
‘Now you sound like a desk-bound admiral,’ Adam chided him.
‘Waging war with protocol and pieces of paper.’
‘I am an admiral,’ said Rob, a touch of petulance in his voice. In
truth, he was as eager as Adam for a quick, decisive strike. ‘It is a
great deal more complicated being an admiral than a sloop captain,
haring over the horizon and engaging every ship you see.’
‘Then I hope I never get promoted.’
Rob was about to give a sharp retort. Then he remembered
himself and smiled.
‘I believe I said the same when I was your age. But . . .
circumstances change.’ He sighed. ‘Everything catches up with
us in the end.’
‘Then let us drink to good times and good friends, and pray I
never get old like you.’
‘An excellent idea.’

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Adam led Rob aft towards his cabin.

‘You remember that French schooner I captured off Marseilles?
Her captain was fond of claret. He kept a hold full of the finest
Margaux wine. I managed to save a few bottles.’
‘I will gladly swap them for a bottle of the fine cognac I took
from Admiral Gaspard when I accepted his surrender.’
Deep in conversation, father and son headed below. Two men
watched them with deep affection. One was Angus, who had
come aboard with Rob. The other, a strongly built African with
ritual scars on his face and his hair tightly cropped, was Scipio.
‘It is good to be back together,’ said Scipio.
‘It is that,’ answered Angus.
The two men were firm friends, united by their love for the
sea, and for the Courtneys.
Scipio nodded towards the shore. Shadows were lengthening
over the dunes, hiding whatever might lurk in their hollows.
‘It will be hot work tomorrow.’
‘If the weather changes.’
‘It will change. And he will attack.’
‘A rare day, seeing the admiral and his bairn in the same fight.’
It was another – unspoken – reason why Rob and Adam did not
sail aboard the same ship. Phoebe had never said a word of com-
plaint, but Rob knew she fretted long sleepless nights about her
menfolk, and the dangerous profession they had chosen. He had
not dared risk both Courtneys’ lives in the same battle. Until now.
‘Let us hope they do not regret it.’ Scipio sounded troubled.
Angus laughed – too loudly. Deep down, he felt the same mis-
givings as his friend.
‘It’s yon Dutchmen we should be worried for,’ he said stoutly.
‘With one Courtney coming at ’em, they wouldn’ae stand a
chance. With two of ’em . . .’
He clapped Scipio on the shoulder and led him forward.
‘We should celebrate. Claret and brandy may be fine for the
likes of Admiral Rob and Captain Adam, and grog’s all right for
them, but I need a good dram of whisky.’

The wind dropped that night, as Scipio had predicted. Next

morning, it blew stiff and steady, licking the waves with crisp

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white foam. At first light, Rob sent a boat ashore to reconnoitre

the beach. The men returned and pronounced it clear of defences.
‘How is the sea?’ Adam demanded.
‘A fair swell,’ said the coxswain. ‘Nowt we can’t handle.’
‘What about it, then?’ Adam asked Rob. ‘Sir,’ he added hastily,
remembering there were others present. ‘We have seven thou-
sand men in the transports. If we put them ashore now, we could
cut off Cape Town from the rear. The garrison would have to
come out and give us open battle, away from the castle.’
Rob studied the shore through his one good eye. If the wind
turned, or rose again, the boats would be trapped in a nexus
of currents, waves and rocks, with no escape. The high dunes
behind the beach offered cover for marksmen or artillery if the
Dutch managed to bring them up.
‘What do you say, Scipio? Will the weather hold?’
Scipio nodded. ‘For a few hours.’
Still Rob hesitated. ‘I do not like the look of that reef. The cur-
rent will draw the boats on to it.’
‘We can run one of our sloops aground against it,’ said Adam.
‘The Bluebell’s hull is so rotten she would never survive the jour-
ney home in any event.’
‘That is an excellent plan.’ Rob swung around to his flag lieu-
tenant. ‘Mr Jones! Signal the fleet. We will commence landing
forthwith. The troop ships will disembark their men, while the
bigger ships lay down a bombardment.’
‘There is no one ashore to hit,’ objected Jones.
‘Then let us keep it that way.’
The men jumped to their orders. A string of signal flags was
hoisted to the masthead. Adam hung back.
‘General Beresford will not be happy when he learns he has
made a two-hundred mile round trip to assault a fort we have
already taken.’
‘That presumes we will have taken it.’
Rob checked the wind again.
Does it feel stronger already?
Seven thousand men’s lives depended on the decision he had taken.
Adam grinned. ‘With Lucky Courtney leading us, how can
we fail?’

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My luck will run out one day, Rob wanted to say.

Every time he heard his nickname, he felt a twinge of super-
stition. His instincts, his courage, his seamanship and his judge-
ment, he trusted absolutely. But luck, like fate, was a capricious
goddess. It could turn at any moment.
He would show no self-doubt.
‘Death to the French,’ he said loudly.
‘And confusion to our enemies,’ chorused his officers.
The men on deck huzzahed and threw their hats in the air.
A cannon’s roar split the sky. The sixty-four gun Diomede had
already begun the bombardment of the beach.
‘You will not regret this,’ Adam promised.
Boats were lowered, troops mustered and weapons checked.
The deck was a frenzy of activity as the crew attended to their
allotted tasks: to an outsider it would have looked like chaos, but
in reality it was highly ordered and disciplined. Rob stood still on
the quarterdeck, the eye of the storm, observing the commotion
he had unleashed. Thousands of men were moving to a purpose –
some maybe to their deaths – because he had given the word.
‘Over there, sir.’
Jones, the flag lieutenant, saw them first. Riders, galloping over
the crest of the dunes, reining in as they saw the flotilla making
for the beach. Through a telescope, Rob could see they were not
uniformed as regular soldiers, but civilians: sober-suited farmers.
Each carried a long rifle holstered by his saddle.
‘Not enough to make a fart’s difference,’ sniffed Angus.
As he said it, a cannonball from the frigate struck one of the
riders square on. Rob saw his torso torn in two. The Dutchman’s
head and shoulders cartwheeled across the ground. The panicked
horse galloped away across the beach, the rider’s legs and waist
still held in the saddle by the stirrups, fountaining blood.
‘That’ll learn ’em,’ said Angus.
‘They’ll bring others.’
Three of the riders turned and spurred back towards Cape
Town. The others dismounted. They tethered their horses out of
sight, then took up position on the back of the dune ridge, where
the bombardment could not reach them. Rob glimpsed the flash
of a spyglass.

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‘More will be here soon.’ The tension was building inside Rob.
He hated being out of the action. Against his better judgement,
he felt himself giving in to the red mist. ‘I am going ashore to
reconnoitre.’
‘Sir?’ said Adam in shock.
‘I will not ask my men to face dangers while their admiral sits
in comfort in his flagship.’
‘But that is your job. What has got into you?’
Rob was silent. Maybe it was older age that was prompting him –
goading him to emulate the fearlessness of his youth, to recover
the spark of being truly alive.
‘I will accompany you,’ said Adam.
‘No. I need you at your post commanding the ship. If the
Dutch bring up troops, we will need to react quickly.’
There was a boat alongside, ready to ferry men ashore. Before
Adam could argue further, Rob shinned down the ladder, as nim-
ble as the topman he had once been. The men on the oars began
to protest as he squeezed between them, then hurriedly knuckled
their foreheads when they saw who it was. Broad grins broke out
on their faces. They were going into battle with Lucky Courtney.
The landing was in full spate now as the ships disembarked
their troops. The boats crowded the bay. The rowers had to
feather their oars, trying to find pockets of water among the press
to make progress. Steering was out of the question. They moved
en masse, as the boats knocked and bumped one another forward.
Rob crouched and scanned the beach. There were rocks close
to the surface that would capsize the overloaded boats in an
instant if they struck. With no steerage way, there would be noth-
ing the crew could do to avoid them. Worse still was the danger
from the beach. If the Dutch brought up artillery, they could cut
bloody swathes through the landing flotilla.
The beach was clear for the moment. But what lurked in the
undulating dunes beyond?

Coenraad Voorhees cursed the British. Then, for good measure,

he cursed the Dutch governor, General Janssens. It was hard to
say whom he hated more: the British invading his homeland,
or the government, who had summoned him from his farm on

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the Zuurveld frontier, on the colony’s eastern border, to fight in

the militia.
He had almost refused. He had a wife, eight children, a hun-
dred head of cattle and eighteen Negro slaves on his farm. The
Xhosa tribesmen on the other side of the Fish River were always
looking for a chance to cross and steal his livestock, while the gov-
ernor ordered the Boers to stay behind a line that some official
in Amsterdam had drawn on a map. As if the blacks had any right
to that land when it was so fertile and ripe for grazing. When the
blacks got too uppity, Coenraad and his fellow farmers would
form a commando and traverse the river. They would slaughter
a few of the Xhosa menfolk, burn their villages, and give their
women a lesson they would not soon forget.
That was what it meant to be a Boer. You defended yourself
and your property, whatever the law demanded.
And that was why he had answered the governor’s call now. Not
out of loyalty to the government, but to defend his land. He scram-
bled up the back slope of the dune, holding his rifle clear of the
ground to prevent sand from fouling it. It was a beautiful weapon,
though immensely heavy: so long that you could rest its butt on
the ground while sitting on horseback and reload without having
to dismount. He had carved the stock himself from stinkwood,
curving the butt like the thigh of a male baboon.
He had cast the bullets himself, too, tempering the lead with
tin to make it hard enough to penetrate even the toughest ani-
mal hide. He was wasting them on men – human skin was a soft
target – but he wanted to hurt these men. He wanted the bullets
to smash their bones and organs and come out the other side to
strike the man behind as well.
If you provoked the Boer, kicked sand in his eyes, he would put
a knife in your guts.
He edged to the ridge of the dune. To his right, a crew of Mala-
gasy slaves were manhandling a gun into the emplacement they had
dug out of the sand. They made too much noise – if they had been
his slaves, he would have given them a lash of his sjambok – but the
crash of the surf hid the sound from the men who were staggering
ashore on the beach. They were Scotsmen, kilts flapping in the
breeze and bagpipes wailing. They looked like seasoned fighters,

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but that didn’t worry Coenraad. The joy of the hunt was pitting
yourself against a worthy adversary. And if he missed the landing
party, there were always the men in the boats behind, packed so
tight it would be like shooting cattle in a kraal.
He laid out the cartridges and his powder horn on the sand,
and sighted his rifle. He unwrapped the cloth from the lock. This
was the moment he enjoyed most – the power of holding a man’s
life in your hand, the power of the hunter over his prey.
There.
An officer, with a weathered face and plenty of gold lace on his
uniform jacket. He would be a fine kill for Coenraad’s bag.
Coenraad closed one eye. He nestled the stock against his
cheek, wrapped his finger around the trigger – then squeezed.
The gun spat flame, smoke and lead. His aim was true. The
hardened ball hit the officer below the ribbons on his chest and
flung him backwards into the water.
That was what happened when you fought the Boer, Coenraad
thought. Try to take his property, his land, and he would take
your life.

Even above the roar of the surf, Rob – out in the landing flotilla –
heard the shot. His head snapped up, homing in on the source.
He saw everything in an instant: a puff of white smoke from the
sand dune, and, on the beach, a Highland colonel staggering back
into the surf, clutching his chest. The gold braid on his uniform
coat had made him an obvious target.
More shots cracked from the dunes. Reinforcements had
arrived. There must be a whole company of Dutch sharpshooters
entrenched at that spot. But what if they were only the vanguard?
A deep roar boomed behind Rob. The ships were returning
fire, pounding the beach with the full weight of their broadsides.
Cannonballs screamed overhead, throwing up high plumes of
sand. The men in the boats crouched low, while the Highlanders
who had already gained the beach flung themselves to the ground.
None of the men were novices. Almost all had been in battle
before. But the soldiers were out of their element, trapped in bob-
bing boats on a tossing sea, caught between the cannons behind
and the rifles on shore. Some started to panic. Boats rocked; the

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rowers missed their strokes, and as soon as they faltered the cur-
rent took them. It swept them sideways, pushing them east along
the beach towards the reef.
The sailors in Rob’s boat saw the danger and tried to pull away,
but there was a boat butted up hard against their windward side
which gave their oars no room. Now the reef was so close they
could almost touch it. The sailors tried to fend it off, but their
oars might as well have been toothpicks. Some snapped; others
were wrenched from the men’s hands.
The boat shuddered as it struck. Men were trapped. As the
oars wedged against the rock, they jammed, pinning the men to
their benches. One almost caught Rob’s knee, but he wrenched it
away and managed to scrabble to his feet. Stepping over his own
men, Rob lunged for the side of the vessel.
The boat had already started to tip. Frantic soldiers were try-
ing to climb over the side, scrambling into the neighbouring
vessels. But those were overloaded, too: any more men would
capsize them. Chaos would spread from boat to boat; the flotilla
would be lost. With their equipment weighing them down, even
the soldiers who could swim would drown.
Rob unbuckled his sword belt, pulled off his uniform coat and
leaped onto the rock. The surface was wet and worn smooth by the
waves: he slid straight off it into the water. He clung on, seeking a
foothold underwater. He found a crevice in the rock and wedged his
foot in. If he misjudged his next actions, there would be no escape.
The boat drifted towards him. Low in the water, she looked as
huge as a whale. A splintered oar floated on the surface nearby.
Rob grabbed it. Propping it against the rock, he tried to fend off
the oncoming longboat. He knew he could not stop it. Instead,
he bashed at the hull, trying to turn the bow away from the rock.
The boat slid so close to his face he could taste the tar from
the caulking on his lips. Men were leaning over the side, staring
down at him and yelling. Water muffled his ears, so he could not
hear. He held his breath. Another inch closer and the hull would
grind him against the rock like a millstone.
Behind him, he heard the hull scrape against an outcropping
and for a moment he thought his time was up. The stern of the
boat was swinging round towards him, inch by inch. It grazed his

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cheek, pushing his head back against the rock. He felt his skull
begin to crack like a nut.
Suddenly the pressure eased. He could breathe again. He had
managed to push the boat away; a small pocket of space opened
out on the water. But another boat, caught by the current, was
already bearing down on him.
‘Grab hold of the painter!’
He had to shout to be heard. Salt water swept into his mouth
and made him gag, but he spat it out and shouted again, waving
frantically. He saw an oar sweeping low over the water towards
him. He duck-dived a second before it would have stoved in
his head.
Resurfacing, he saw a man in the bow of the second vessel take
a rope and throw it to the boat ahead. The line was taken in and
went taut.
Past the rock, free of the crowded flotilla, the lead boat was able
to manoeuvre. Her crew worked the few oars that hadn’t broken,
pulling clear. They dragged the trailing boat away from danger.
That allowed the second boat’s crew to row, opening more space.
The jammed flotilla began to drift apart.
As quick as a squall, the panic that had threatened to engulf
the men subsided. Sailors dug in their oars and sent their vessels
cruising forward. Highlanders found their balance. They kneeled
on the thwarts and poured a brisk fire at the beach, while the
ships behind pounded the dunes with their cannons.
In the confusion, Rob had been left on the rock. But he was a
strong swimmer. He kicked his foot free and turned towards the
beach.
There was a shadow in the water.
Shark, said a voice in his head – he had seen them often enough,
growing up – but no sooner had he thought it than he realised he
was wrong.
Sunlight glinted on brass buttons. It was a soldier. He must
have fallen from a boat in the panic and was sinking fast. In a
moment, he would be out of reach. Without hesitating, Rob
dived down and wrapped his arms around the man’s torso.
The body was limp; hair floated like weed. It was impossible
to tell if he was alive or dead. Rob pushed hard, lifting him to

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the light. They broke the surface, and almost went under again
as a wave smashed over them. The waterlogged soldier, with the
full kit and sodden woollen jacket of a corporal, was nearly three
hundred pounds of dead weight, but Rob did not let go. He raised
his head above water again and thumped him hard on the back.
A shudder convulsed the man. He was alive. Rob paused for
a moment, treading water and taking his bearings. He was two
hundred yards off the beach, with an ominous line of white
breakers to pass through. Up on the dunes, he saw the muzzle
flashes of rifles firing at the landing force. He doubted the Dutch
could see him. At that distance, low in the water, he would be lost
in the waves.
He took a breath and struck out towards the beach. The sea
was high, and a vice admiral of the Red does not go swimming
very often, let alone carrying a half-dead corporal. But Rob had
spent his childhood exploring the coves and inlets of Nativity
Bay; his grandmother had joked he was half porpoise. The move-
ments returned effortlessly. He powered through the water with
strong, purposeful kicks, his arm under the soldier’s shoulders.
The noise rose as they approached the boiling breakers. The
corporal’s weight tried to drag Rob down, but he tightened his
grip and kicked harder, paddling as hard as he could with his
one free arm. A wave was coming in. Rob let it lift him and the
corporal, kicked towards its crest, then gave himself over to the
merciless wave to carry them both forward on its surge.
The wave broke. Rob stopped trying to swim; instead, he
wrapped himself around the soldier and held his breath as the surf
tumbled them over and over in the maelstrom. For a moment, he
felt weightless. Then his foot touched solid ground. He launched
himself up; his head broke the water and he saw the beach only
a few yards distant. Dragging the corporal by his shoulders, he
staggered onto the beach.
He had returned to Africa.
A bullet hit the ground beside him. The marksmen in the
dunes were still in full action, and the Highlanders forming up
on the beach were too far away to provide cover. Rob had left his
sword in the boat and lost his pistol in the water; the corporal had
his ammunition pouch attached to his belt, but the powder was

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soaked. Rob scanned the open beach for a rock to hide behind,
but there was nothing.
The corporal was coming to. Rob dragged him towards the
shelter of the dunes – closer to danger, but at least they would
not be out in the open. From the corner of his eye, Rob saw a
silhouette rising, an impossibly long rifle levelling at him. Rob
could make it to cover if he ran, but that would mean abandoning
the corporal to certain death.
If he did nothing, they would both die.
The air hummed as a cannonball screamed overhead and
slammed into the slope above. The marksman ducked away, as
a column of sand exploded into the air and rained down around
them.
Rob was convinced it was more than luck. Adam must have
been watching from the quarterdeck. He would have seen Rob
emerge from the sea, and assessed the danger from the rifle-
men in the dunes. Now any Dutchman who wanted to shoot
Rob would have to expose himself to the full force of the ship’s
broadside.
Rob dragged the corporal over the stretch of beach and found
a hollow at the foot of the dunes. The corporal rolled over and
purged lungfuls of water.
‘Christ, but that was a cunny hair from drowning.’ The salt
water had done nothing to douse the man’s broad Scots accent –
or the colour of his language. He was a small, terrier-like man,
with a red moustache and a corporal’s stripes on his shoulder. He
stuck out a trembling hand. ‘Frank Waite.’
Without his uniform coat, Rob had nothing to indicate his
rank. He had lost his fine boots and stockings, and his tailored
breeches had been torn ragged in the surf. The corporal had mis-
taken him for a common sailor.
Rob shook the proffered hand. ‘Robert Courtney.’
Corporal Waite’s firm grip went suddenly limp.
‘Admiral Courtney? Vice Admiral Sir Robert bloody Courtney?’
‘I will be when I get my fleet back. In the meantime, rank is
no protection from a Dutch bullet. We are equals on this beach.’
‘Aye,’ said Waite doubtfully.
Rob’s mouth was parched. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’

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The corporal unbuttoned his tunic and fetched out a small flask.
Rob took a deep draught to wash the salt water from his mouth –
and nearly choked as the raw taste of whisky burned his throat.
‘I didn’t think the Highlanders needed any extra courage,’
he said.
‘No more we do, sir,’ said Waite. ‘But fighting’s a sore thirsty
business.’
‘That it is.’
Rob glanced up. At the foot of the steep dunes, with Adam’s
cannon covering them, they were safe from the sharpshooters
above. It would be possible to wait out the rest of the battle, until
the Highland regiment formed up and made their advance.
It was not in Rob’s nature to lie low while his men were being
shot at.
‘I am going up there,’ he told Waite.
The corporal looked unsurprised. ‘I’ll follow ye.’
‘Maybe we will get you a sergeant’s stripe before the day is out.’
Rob clambered up the slope. Sand ran into his shirt and his
breeches. He paused at the top of the rise – then, in a sudden
bound, sprang up and rolled over the top.
A cry of alarm told him he had been seen. Before he had stopped
moving, he located the source of the sound. A burly man, with a
sunburned face and the blue uniform coat of the Cape Dragonder
militia, was loading a long rifle, ready to fire at Rob. He handled
the rifle with ease; less so the militia jacket. The tight-fitting seams
cramped his movements, giving Rob half a second more time. He
hurled himself at the Dutchman.
The man pulled the trigger. Rob was so close that the dis-
charge scorched his face: surely the man could not miss. But in
his haste, the man had snatched it. He hadn’t finished reloading.
The ramrod flew an inch past Rob’s shoulder and stuck quivering
in the sand behind him.
Rob drove into the Dutchman and wrestled him to the ground.
On the soft sand, neither of the men could keep their footing.
They rolled to the bottom of the slope, locked in each other’s grip.
Rob was first to his feet – but it was scant advantage. He was
not a weak man, but in the last ten years he had spent more time
wielding a pen than his fists. The Dutchman was a farmer who

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could carry a springbok across his shoulders. He pulled himself

upright, spitting curses.
For the first time, Rob felt afraid. He squared up to his oppo-
nent, keeping his fists high. He tried a left feint, followed by a
right jab, but the Dutchman dodged them easily. He answered
with a straight hit to Rob’s face, a punch like a kicking horse. Rob
managed to block it. Too late, he realised that it had been a feint.
The attack with real purpose was a fist to his belly that doubled
him over. Before he could recover, the Dutchman brought up his
knee, trying to smash Rob’s nose. He caught Rob’s chin instead,
snapping his head back so hard it almost broke his neck. Rob flew
back and landed on the sand.
The Dutchman pulled a blade from his belt. It was the hunting
knife he used for flaying the carcasses of the game he shot, or some-
times the blacks who trespassed on his land. Rob lay helpless, dazed
from the blow he had taken. The glimmering blade was a blur of
white light. He tried to crawl away, but the Dutchman put a foot on
his leg and pinned him fast.
The knife dropped. A heavy weight thumped into Rob, knock-
ing the breath out of him. He tasted blood. But it was not the kill-
ing blow. The Dutchman had collapsed on top of him, bleeding
where his scalp had been cracked open. Blinking, Rob saw Waite
with the ramrod in his hands. It had broken in two with the force
of the blow Waite had struck.
Before the Dutchman could recover, Waite picked up the fallen
knife and stuck it through his ribs.
‘You saved my life,’ Rob gasped.
‘That’s why the Lord moved you to pull me out of the water,’
said Waite.
He wiped the knife on the Dutchman’s jacket, then expertly
frisked the corpse. A few guilders disappeared into his ammunition
pouch. He picked up the dead man’s long rifle and reloaded it.
‘What now, sir?’
Rob’s head was clearing. He stood, scanning his surroundings
for any new dangers.
A sharp crack sounded from the narrow valley that wound
through the dunes. It was different from the report of a rifle –
more like the snap of a whip. It was followed by a cry and a groan.

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Rob and Waite exchanged glances. They crept through the

spiky rhinoceros bush, over a saddle in the dunes to a valley lead-
ing down to the beach. It looked like a well-trodden path that
stray livestock and antelope might take to the shore; now it was
blocked. Timbers had been thrown across it, and the sand dug
out to form a makeshift embrasure. Eight black slaves, naked to
the waist, were serving a small eight-pound field gun under the
direction of a white officer. They must have dragged the cannon
all the way from Cape Town. Their hands bled, and their feet
were shackled so they could not run away
The officer struck one of the slaves. The man tripped on
his fetters and stumbled into the gun. The scalding hot barrel
scorched his skin. He screamed and dropped the cannonball he
was carrying. That earned him another sharp lash of the officer’s
sjambok, which left a bloody welt across his shoulders.
Rob felt his blood rise. Growing up on his family’s homestead
in Africa, it had never occurred to him to judge a person by the
colour of his skin. The people of the local tribes had been friends
and guests; their children had been his playmates. He had not for-
gotten the horror he had felt the first time he saw how British and
American planters treated their slaves – the barbarism they meted
out in pursuit of their profits. Twice in his early career, he had
freed slaves from their owners, and both times it had nearly cost
him his life. Since then, every slaver on the oceans feared crossing
paths with a ship under Robert Courtney’s command.
The sight of the slaves being forced to fight for the men who
oppressed them made him boil with anger. He grabbed the rifle
from Corporal Waite and stepped into the open. It was an age
since he had fired a long arm, but it settled against his cheek eas-
ily. With a single fluid motion, he sighted and fired.
The hardened bullet hit the Dutch officer between the eyes,
drilled through his brain and emerged from the back of his head.
He stood for a moment, almost too surprised to die, then col-
lapsed. The slaves, accustomed to violence, reacted faster. They
threw themselves to the ground, burrowing into the sand.
‘Go!’ Rob shouted.
The Africans looked up, but did not move. They didn’t speak
English, and they would not trust the word of a white man.

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‘Go!’ he said again, more urgently. He slipped effortlessly into

the Qwabe language he had learned as a child with his playmates,
the language he spoke sometimes with Phoebe. ‘Go before the
Dutch come back.’
The sight of a white man speaking like an African astonished
them. One, bolder than the others, rose to his feet. He backed
away, never taking his eyes off Rob. Rob smiled encouragement
and waved him on.
Waite found a set of keys on the Dutch officer’s belt and
tossed them to the slaves. The leader unlocked his manacles,
then freed the others. One by one, they climbed to their feet,
rubbing their ankles and staring uncertainly at Rob.
Then they turned and ran into the dunes.
Rob knew it was only eight men – eight, against the tens of
thousands who would be kidnapped and brutalised every year.
But eight was better than none.
‘There’s more’n a few Scotsmen who’ll be alive tonight because
you took that gun out of service.’ Waite was examining the can-
non, wondering if it could be turned on the Dutch. ‘You’re not
like any admiral I’ve ever seen before.’
But Rob didn’t answer. Above the noise of battle, Waite had
not heard a shot, let alone the wet plash of lead hitting flesh. Yet
now Rob was lying on the ground, blood pumping from his chest.

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 Also by Wilbur Smith

Non-Fiction The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

The Triumph of the Sun
On Leopard Rock: A Life of
King of Kings
Adventures
Call of the Raven
The Courtney Series
The Egyptian Series
When the Lion Feeds
River God
The Sound of Thunder
The Seventh Scroll
A Sparrow Falls
Warlock
The Burning Shore
The Quest
Power of the Sword
Desert God
Rage
Pharaoh
A Time to Die
The New Kingdom
Golden Fox
Birds of Prey
Hector Cross
Monsoon
Blue Horizon Those in Peril
The Triumph of the Sun Vicious Circle
Assegai Predator
Golden Lion
War Cry Standalones
The Tiger’s Prey The Dark of the Sun
Courtney’s War Shout at the Devil
King of Kings Gold Mine
Ghost Fire The Diamond Hunters
Legacy of War The Sunbird
Storm Tide Eagle in the Sky
The Eye of the Tiger
The Ballantyne Series Cry Wolf
A Falcon Flies Hungry as the Sea
Men of Men Wild Justice
The Angels Weep Elephant Song

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