Ian stopped playing, squeezed the air out of his pipes, grasped his claymore and said, “I might be, but tis a fair breeze up here, and I have me playmates coming, so it must be a grand temptin’ to sway me.”
Carter said, “You’ve got three arrows left. You could put them to good use while those boys are climbing.”
“Aye, but I sent their bowmen to meet Charon the Ferryman, and now they’re lowlanders armed with poor quality steel. Wouldn’t be sportin’ to fletch three of them.”
“I can see how it wouldn’t. But it’s a long walk from here to anywhere, and I have a ride if you want it.”
Ian grinned at Carter, bright blue eyes sparkling, and said, “Would ye be havin’ a dram or two of skull thump with ye? That would tip the scales, I’m thinkin’.”
“There’s a bottle of Kentucky anti-fogmatic in the galley.”
Ian pursed his lips, “Bourbon? Pity, I think I’ll be stayin’.”
The lines at the corners of John’s eyes crinkled, “I do happen to have a full cask of The Glenlivet I picked up yesterday from their distillery in Speyside.”
“Yer a bonny prince, Captain! Permission to come aboard!” John motioned with his arm. Ian sheathed his claymore, grabbed his bagpipe, longbow and quiver, and vaulted onto the deck as light and agile as a red-haired catamount.
They had been as close as brothers ever since.
Ian said, “We should be approachin’ Adam Peak in a wee bit. Do ye ken to pass the sacred mountain on the east or west?”
John pulled his yellow-lens goggles down so they hung around his neck and said, “On the east, and low, as deep into the greenery as we can. There are too many eyes on Adam Peak.”
“Aye, John. We’ll nudge the monkeys so gentle from their perches we won’t wake a single ape.”
The Wraith approached the tall, reddish mountain called “Sri Prada” by the Ceylonese and Adam Peak by the British. Buddhists knew it as the most holy place in Ceylon. The gray frigate swung to the east side and submerged into the green-tinged darkness of a forest that spread like an emerald skirt down the slopes of the mountain. The Wraith sailed in silence though the vegetation, its hull bruising the leaves and petals, releasing oils into the air so the night filled their nostrils with a sweet perfume of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, jasmine, orchids, and countless other fragrant flowers. Here and there, the frigate disturbed large clusters of multi-colored butterflies that fluttered so thickly around the ship that John felt it was like looking through a kaleidoscope. The colors were vibrant, even in the moonlight.
When Mount Adam was behind them, John walked to Ian and said, “Where is the rest of the crew?”
Ian said, “They’re a wee bit skittish of the ballast there.” He indicated the woven baskets.
“We will be rid of them soon. Tell the boys to stop being so girlish about it.”
“Aye.”
“And tell them to remember that sound carries in the mountain valleys, and we won’t be out of them until the first gray light.”
“They’re good lads, John. It will be fine sailin’. Dinnae be gettin’ yerself a case of the flopsies, it’s not like ye.”
John squinted one eye and looked at the Scotsman. “The flopsies?”
“I believe I’ll check on the sails,” Ian said as he walked away, humming a highland tune.
The Wraith cut through the night like a sleek predator as it followed the rivers and canyons through the mountains to pass beneath the massive bulk of Piduruthalagala and on to the lower reaches, finally emerging on the flat plains with the coastal city of Colombo straight east. The faintest sliver of lighter color showed on the horizon. John let the wind tousle his hair and felt the old tingle of coming battle in his body, like a warm liquid coursing through his veins and charging him with power and strength.
He turned from the bow and saw Ian and his men on the deck, armed with pistols, rifles, knives, swords, and axes. They stood beside the baskets and their eyes were bright with the promise of battle. “We’re dead on course and steppin’ lively to the time, Captain.” Ian said.
[ 13 ]
Avi groaned as the two guards jerked him from the stone floor and forced him to stand as they manacled his hands and feet. The Chief Guard said, “It is being your time of dying, Avinash Rathmandu Joseph, and I shall sing for your death to be long and painful.”
“Why do you hate me so?”
“You chose not to be revealing your knowledge to our British masters, and they took their displeasure on me for failing them. For this, I hate you and am joyous at your suffering.”
They pushed him out of his cell and he saw the manacled black woman leaning against the far wall. She had been beaten, and probably worse. Her clothing, what was left of it, was only pieces. Her skirt hung in shreds, showing the full length of her bare legs. The remnants of her blouse covered some of her breasts, but not her stomach or arms. Her smile was crooked because of the swollen corner of her lip, but she said in that familiar, lilting voice, “Soon, Avi, death be freein’ us.”
The guards shoved both of them down the hallway and out of the building, where they crossed the grounds through a throng of unsmiling guards. Avi and Bixie stopped at the bottom of a tall, white-painted wooden structure with the gallows ropes at the very top. The stairs went up at a steep angle, twenty-four feet. The Guard pointed up the stairs, and to add emphasis, slapped Avi across the shoulders with the flat of a ceremonial saber. Avi fell hard, but was immediately jerked to his feet. “Get up the stairs,” the Chief Guard said. Avi and Bixie started the slow climb to the gallows.