Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [293]
‘Say bout red cot,’ Inchebe panted. He had no idea what these words meant. ‘Say bout red cot den dey shoot.’
‘Holy Mary!’ Sullivan said. ‘Dat sojers he talkin’ bout. Redcoats. They have sent sojers after us.’ His eyes were wet still with the quick tears that had come with the news of Billy’s death. ‘It is redcoats have killed Billy,’ he said.
To Paris, standing among the others in his breechclout and a shirt strangely patched and shortened, these words of Sullivan’s carried immediate conviction. He was shocked, but not surprised. Ever since learning that the fighting was over and the British established in the north, he had been expecting some sort of expedition against them sooner or later. News followed trade; there would have been rumours of merchandise down here more valuable than salt or flint or anything the traders carried … ‘We can still get out,’ he said. ‘We can’t fight men armed with guns, not from inside here. We can break out before they have time to form round us.’
‘Dat right.’ Kireku’s eyes flashed fiercely. He had his bow slung over one shoulder and heavy arrows in a bark quiver at his belt. ‘Nobody see Inchebe come,’ he said. ‘Nobody try stop him. Dey not in place yet. We ken git out same way he come in. In de bush nobody fin’ us. Redcot try fin’ me, stick him like pig, make him cot red pas’ now.’
It was to be long remembered of Kireku that even at this desperate moment he had made a joke. He was already moving away when a booming voice reached them from somewhere beyond the stockade: ‘You are surrounded on every side. You cannot escape. Lay down your arms and open the gates. We are armed with cannon and can destroy you all at will …’
The voice was frightening, unearthly, distorted by an amplifying instrument of some kind which made it impossible to determine the direction. But the flat accents of northern England were clearly recognizable in it.
‘There may be time yet,’ Paris said. ‘They may not know of the gate in the rear.’ He hesitated, looking at Tabakali and the children standing close beside her, Kenka between the two smaller ones. ‘We wait here, catch in a trap,’ he said. ‘Dey go make you slave again.’ He had spoken rapidly and was not sure if she had understood, but she looked at him steadily and after a moment nodded.
‘It wort’ tryin’,’ Nadri said. ‘We git clear, adder come behin’.’
They went at a run through the lines of the huts. Beyond the narrow gate the space of open ground was deserted. The mist had lifted now and a pallid radiance showed in the sky above the listless fronds of the palms. Looking upward, Paris saw gulls in lazy flight, the hidden sun eliciting flashes of brilliance from them as they turned. The first trees were less than half a minute away to a running man but the distance seemed vast to Paris. He saw Kenka regarding him with an intent and painful seriousness and he reached out and briefly touched the boy’s cheek. ‘We go two-three fust time, see what happen,’ he said. ‘Nottin’ happen, rest all go tagedder. You wait we in de bush, den you start runnin’.’
Nadri opened the gate and crouched a moment longer in the shelter of the stockade. His eyes met those of Paris and he smiled. Then he was up and running, with Paris and Kireku close behind.
Younger than the others by a good ten years and a natural runner, Kireku at once drew ahead. He moved with long strides, head up, the quiver swinging against his thigh. A shout came from somewhere slightly ahead of them, to the right. Kireku was almost in the shadow of the trees now. Then shots rang out in ragged unison and Paris saw Kireku pitch forward on his face. A moment later he felt a violent blow to his left leg. He staggered aside and fell heavily and lay on his back looking up to the sky, feeling nothing at first but the shock of the blow and the fall. Then pain gathered in his leg and with it a sense of the damage done to him: he knew now that the bone was broken. Raising his head a little he saw that Kireku was still lying where he had fallen, quite motionless. The