"Wilbur Smith - Courtney 03 - Blue Horizon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

And where, pray, did you learn such language?" Mansur panted, between desperate strokes.

"You're as big a clown as this stupid Dutchman," Jim told him grimly. The ship loomed over them, her bow wave shining silver in the moonlight.

Hail her!" There was a sudden edge to Mansur's voice as the danger became even more apparent.

"Don't waste your breath," Zama retorted. They're fast asleep. They won't hear you. Pull!" The three strained on the oars and the little vessel seemed to fly through the water, but the big ship came on even faster.

we will have to jump?" There was a question in Mansur's strained tone.

"Good!" Jim grunted. "We're right over the Cauldron. Test your father's story. Which of your legs will Big Julie bite off first?"

They rowed in a silent frenzy, sweat bursting out and shining on their contorted faces in the cool night. They were heading for the safety of the rocks where the big ship could not touch them, but they were still a full cable's length out and now the high sails towered over them, blotting out the stars. They could hear the wind drumming in the canvas, the creaking of her timbers, and the musical burble of her bow wave. Not one of the boys spoke, but as they strained on the oars they stared up at her in dread.

"Sweet Jesus, spare us!" Jim whispered.

"In Allah's Name!" Mansur said softly.

"All the fathers of my tribe!"

Each called out to his own god or gods. Zama never missed the stroke but his eyes glared white in his dark face as he watched death bear down on them. The pressure wave ahead of the bows lifted them, and suddenly they were surfing on it, flung backwards, racing stern-first down the side of the wave. The transom went under and icy water poured in, flooding her. All three boys were hurled over the side, just as the massive hull hit them. As he went under Jim realized that it had been a glancing blow. The skiff was hurled aside, but there was no crack of rending timbers.

Jim was driven deep, but he tried to swim deeper still. He knew that contact with the bottom of the ship would be fatal. She would be heavily encrusted with barnacles after her ocean passage, and the razor sharp shells would strip the flesh from his bones. He tensed every muscle in his body in anticipation of the agony, but it did not come. His lungs were burning and his chest was pumping with the compelling urge to breathe. He fought it until he was sure that the ship was clear, then turned for the surface and drove upwards with arms and legs. He saw the golden outline of the moon through limpid water, wavering and insubstantial, and swam towards it with all his strength and will. Suddenly he burst out into the air and filled his lungs with it. He rolled on to his back, gasped, choked and sucked in the life-giving sweetness. "Mansur! Zama!" he croaked, through the pain of his aching lungs. "Where are you? Pipe up, damn you. Let me hear you!"

"Here!" It was Mansur's voice, and Jim looked for him. His cousin was clinging to the swamped skiff, his long red curls slicked down over his face like a seal's pelt. Just then another head popped through the surface between them.

"Zama." With two overarm strokes he reached him, and lifted his face out of the water. Zama coughed and brought up an explosive jet of water and vomit. He tried to throw both arms around Jim's neck, but Tim ducked him until he released his grip, then dragged him to the side of the wallowing skiff.

"Here! Take hold of this." He guided his hand to the gunwale. The three hung there, struggling for breath.

Jim was the first to recover sufficiently to find his anger again. "Bitchborn bastard!" he gasped, as he stared after the departing ship. She was sailing on sedately. "Doesn't even know he almost killed us."

"She stinks worse than the seal colony." Mansur's voice was still rough, and the effort of speech brought on a coughing fit.

Jim sniffed the air and caught the odour that fouled it. "Slaver. Bloody slaver," he spat. "No mistaking that smell."

"Or a convict ship," Mansur said hoarsely. "Probably transporting prisoners from Amsterdam to Batavia." They watched the ship alter course, her sails changing shape in the moonlight as she rounded up to enter the bay and join the other shipping anchored there.

"I'd like to find her captain in one of the gin hells at the docks," Jim said darkly.

"Forget it!" Mansur advised him. "He'd stick a knife between your ribs, or in some other painful place. Let's get the skiff bailed out." There was only a few fingers of free board so Jim had to slide in over the transom. He groped under the thwart and found the wooden bucket still lashed under the seat. They had tied down all the gear and equipment securely for the hazardous launch through the surf. He began bailing out the hull, sending a steady stream of water over the side. By the time it was half cleared, Zama had recovered sufficiently to climb aboard and take a spell with the bucket. Jim hauled in the oars, which were still floating alongside, then checked the other equipment. "All the fishing tackle's still here." He opened the mouth of a sack and peered inside. "Even the bait."

"Are we going on?" Mansur asked.

"Of course we are! Why not, in the name of the Devil."

"Well..." Mansur looked dubious. "We were nearly drowned."

"But we weren't," Jim pointed out briskly. "Zama has got her dry, and the Cauldron is less than a cable's length away. Big Julie is waiting for her breakfast. Let's go and feed it to her." Once again they took their positions on the thwarts, and plied the long oars. "Bastard cheese head cost us an hour's fishing time," Jim complained bitterly.