Chapter VI

-CHAPTER VI-

A day  later, several hours after dawn, it began.

 

Abdul had set out on his wagon an hour or so before the sun to get a head start on his journey, for it was a long one indeed. He had with him his ten year old son Dahl, and as he had told the gate guards, ten barrels of strong red wine imported from Italy, and it was mighty fine stuff. He had snuck out a small bottle’s worth and was sharing it with Dahl as they rode. It was the boy’s first time on a trip with him, but he had begged so hard to come that Abdul had finally accepted with a chuckle after days of persistent nagging. He couldn’t refuse his son anything.

 ‘You see son,’ he was saying while smoking on a length of tobacco he’d snatched up from his packet, ‘if you work hard, like your old father, when you come to my age, you’ll have enough stored away to live in a grand house with servants of your own, and won’t that be fine?’ he said wistfully.

The son grinned up at the dad, and had his hair ruffled in return. Dahl held the reins well, and had taken little encouragement. He was a natural alright.

‘You’re a good son, boy,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘I’m so very very proud of you know. When your mother died, it was hard to cope, but damn if you haven’t turned out alright anyway.’

The boy squirmed with embarrassment, and sought to change the subject,

‘Dad, look at all those desert people!’ he said, pointing.

‘Now son, this is important, and besides, the Bedouin never come this far West, probably just a gipsy or two,’ but something in the boy’s voice made him look, and keep looking.

It wasn’t possible, it simply wasn’t. Even with his poor vision, he could make them out. He couldn’t not; there were thousands of them.

The ground was trembling now. As far as the eye could see, desert raiders rode their camels and horses in a huge horde, all directly towards them. Never had he seen such numbers, nor so well organised.

They were obviously not rushing, just slowly riding towards them, faces covered, bristling with muskets and swords and lances.

The tobacco dropped out of his mouth, and he stared in mute shock as the vanguard reached but a half hundred yards from them.

His son was pulling at his sleeve,

‘Dad. What is it? Dad, dad…What is…’

There was a single shot, and it made a loud ricocheting noise as a puff of smoke appeared from the lead rider’s raised weapon.

Time slowed down for Abdul then. He didn’t feel it hit him, but he felt the wagon shake with the impact.

Looking down, he was puzzled at first; there was no hole, or blood that he could see. He felt like he was underwater. Looking about him, he still couldn’t see where the ball had struck. Must have hit the headboard he thought with a snort. He felt Dahl lean into him, and fear touched him. Thinking fast, he whispered out of the side of his mouth to the boy, ‘Son, I am going to try and distract them, and I want you to take the spare horse and ride away as fast you can. Don’t stop, don’t look back, and don’t slow down until you’re back inside the city. It’s only twenty minutes hard riding, and they won’t catch you. You’re lighter than them.’

He paused, choking back a sob, ‘ and…Remember that I love you. So so so very much. You are my flesh and blood, and you will make it.

I love you so much.’ There were tears in his eyes and he felt terror inside, but he faced the enemy proudly. As long as his son had a chance, he would hold strong.

Dahl continued to hold onto him, and murmured up at him, ‘I love you too dad,’ and the child curled up beside him with eyes clenched shut.

He felt more tears on his cheek, ‘Go son, what are you waiting for? Go. Get out of here!’

There was no response. He looked down at the small boy, and frowned.

There was a small poppy stain just showing on his doublet above his heart.

Abdul had spent a lot of money to buy nice new clothes for his son so that he looked respectable amongst the other boys while he himself remained in his old worn things.

He wanted Dahl to have the life that he never could have; to be able to realise his dreams, and experience no woe.

All of Abdul’s money went into a bank account that he would give over to Dahl when he came of age. It was quite a tidy sum now, and even though Abdul would die today, the banker, he stored with was a close friend and would know to make sure his son would do well. He was an honest man, one of few these days.

He’d made provisions in case something happened to him before Dahl was old enough to look after himself. His son would do well, he knew it. Pard the banker would take him in as a surrogate child.

He rubbed at the little stain, but it was bright and wet and wouldn’t come out.

Realisation hit him then, and he whimpered softly, rubbing harder at the spot, ignoring what he knew, but it simply grew larger. Soon, Abdul’s hand was red and wet from his furious scrubbing, and he gasped out a wail.

No, no, no, no. This couldn’t happen. Life couldn’t be that cruel. He stroked back his son’s hair, and saw that the pale little face had relaxed. It looked so peaceful. The boy’s fragile body had curled up tightly around the terrible wound in his breast as if trying to close himself around it.

He crooned softly, ‘my boy. My sweet sweet boy. Don’t leave my. You’re my son, and I love you. I love you more than anything in the world. Please son. You were going to be such a wonderful man. I love you so much. My little Dahl.’ his voice broke and he pulled the tiny, precious child tight to his broad chest.

He was entirely limp in Abdul’s arms, and as the first of the Bedouin raiders encircled the wagon, he let forth a bellow of such rage and despair that all those nearby quailed back.

After seconds that lasted an eternity, he looked up from his son’s perfect face with tear-streaked red eyes at the man slowly riding towards him with the barrel now pointing casually across at Abdul’s torso.

As the men slowly closed in on them Abdul’s face went slack, and a slow smile dawned on his face, cold and grim.

If anything, this unnerved the men more than the wail before had and their mounts echoed this, whickering nervously.

Inside, Abdul’s emotions were a torrent of anguish and loss aching like nothing else before, but in just moments, it would all be gone. The world had ended for him, and it was nearly his time to follow it.

Time had nearly stopped completely now, and with an exaggerated slowness, he reached down and picked up the smouldering tobacco from the seat, taking a long drawn out drag.

 

The lead Bedouin looked quizzically at the man before him, not sure how to react. He had just killed what he was certain was the man’s son, and rather than offering them a fight in fits of madness and rage, he now sat and smoked giving the appearance of pure serenity. He moved closer, only stopping his camel just in front of Abdul.

With contempt, he asked, ‘Why do you smile at me, you ignorant city dweller? Your son lies dead in your arms, and we are about to destroy your city. Where then do you find this smile? Do you not feel? Do you not love? Is there nothing to you but a hollow shell?’ Receiving no answers, he laughed as loud as he could, and shouted to the now hundreds of men gathered near, ‘you see! They are sheep! They don’t even have real emotions these city dwellers! Look at this pitiful little creature before us!’

His men laughed.

 

Abdul sat on the bench in a world of his own. In his mind’s eye, he saw his son’s life rush past like a bird in the air.

The day he was born had been the happiest of Abdul’s life, or so he thought, but every day from then on only got happier and happier. He, his wife, and their son Dahl lived in bliss, saving what they could to provide for Dahl’s future.

When his wife had died while Dahl was four, a cloud had passed over him that he thought would not leave him, but his son had pulled him through, and from then on, he had lived solely for his son. His precious son. He stroked the boy’s hair gently, as if, so as not to wake him.

The boy’s first day at school had made him so proud. He was so sharp. He far outstripped his father in intellect, but that was good, and it made him smile when he came home, nattering away about things he had no comprehension of.

But now, these men had taken Dahl from him. His smile sluggishly turned vicious, in a way that made even the leader frightened.

It shook the man to his core, and he pulled the trigger to get rid of this hideous expression.

The noise rang in Abdul’s ear as he felt the lead ball rip through his lung and out his back in a cascade of blood and muscle, but he smiled on, nothing would stop him now.

He was already turning when the bullet hit, and it whipped him completely around so he draped over the seat into the bed of the wagon.

This suited him just fine, and he reached out with one weak hand, and pulled the cork out of the nearest barrel.

His smile grew more malevolent.

Abdul was not the wine merchant he claimed.

He was a smuggler, and right now, his wagon had not one barrel of wine, but instead, ten barrels filled with coarse black powder.

Gunpowder.

He shouted out his son’s name as more bullets ripped into him, blood spraying from his lips, his back a shattered mess, and pushed the lit leaves into the open hole in the barrel.

With a smile on his lips, he was in harmony with the world.

The light swallowed him whole. He spoke then; his last words, ‘I’m coming son,’ and the light consumed him.

 

East of Surat, a huge explosion had fractured the quiet of the dawn, and shaken the ground itself. The soldiers on watch had seen the plume of fire rearing up on the horizon, and they were afraid.

The first to recover from the shock rang the bell for call-to-arms, and soon, all over the city, the bells pealed in a cacophony of chaotic music.

Few if any knew the meaning of the sound in a place so unused to danger, and far too many misinterpreted it as a joyous sound. There were those however who did understand the noise, and many of them paled, running as fast as they could to hide from what was coming.

Fewer still realised the true significance behind it all.

 

One of these was a man in the tavern known as ‘The Merry Maiden,’ and he cursed himself for a fool, and then rushed out of his room and into the one next door to wake his master.

 

Another such was a one-eyed man in a shop on the waterfront, and he grinned maniacally in the dark of his cot. For over a week, he had waited for them to arrive.

 

The last of them was a woman, resting her pretty head in her voluptuous bed chamber in her castle. Out of all the others, her fear was the greatest.

She ran to her door and called for a servant. With quick, clipped tones, she directed him, then hurried to get dressed.

The woman was Lady Cecilia Brentworth, and she had a city to defend.

 

 

Without Abdul and his gunpowder, the city would have been overrun in minutes. Instead, some five miles to the East, a French colonel looked at the smoking mess with disgust.

Some five and twenty soldiers had died, with double that wounded.

He hated that he had to work with these savages, and now the city was surely warned. He set his captains back to their bands, for they certainly couldn’t be called units, and within another ten minutes, they had resumed their steady trot toward Surat.

With him, he had close to three and twenty thousand mounted Bedouin soldiers, all armed with a variety of weapons, from muskets and pistols to rusty swords and lances, and he had come to raze Surat to the ground.