Blue Horizon

By Wilbur Smith

A Courtney series adventure - Book 3 in the Birds of Prey trilogy

Jim sprang back on to the truck of the violently rocking wagon, and stared across at Manatasee. She saw him and pointed her assegai at his face. Then he saw the length of slow-match had been exposed across the last yard of trampled earth below the mound on which the queen stood. The swift flame shot along it, leaving the fuse blackened and twisted as it burned. Jim clenched his jaws and waited for the explosion. ' A powerful enemy. A land of second chances. Jim Courtney is protected by all the wealth and influence that his family's successful business, the Courtney Brothers Trading Company, can provide in the Dutch-owned colonies of South Africa. Louisa Leuven is an orphaned young woman who escaped the plague only to be unjustly imprisoned and transported to the Cape. When a storm destroys her prison ship, Jim is her only hope of escape. But Louise and Jim have greater adventures in the African wilds ahead of them: they must flee from Dutch forces who seek not only to recapture their prisoner, but also to hunt down and hang Jim Courtney - and punish the other member of the Courtney family, however they can...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zaffre
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781499861037

Wilbur Smith

Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He became a full-time writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds, and has since published over fifty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. An international phenomenon, his readership built up over fifty-five years of writing, establishing him as one of the most successful and impressive brand authors in the world. The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur's passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation's flagship programme is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize. Wilbur Smith passed away peacefully at home in 2021 with his wife, Niso, by his side, leaving behind him a rich treasure-trove of novels and stories that will delight readers for years to come. For all the latest information on Wilbur Smith's writing visit www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith

Book preview

Praise for the novels of

Read on, adventure fans.

The New York Times

A rich, compelling look back in time [to] when history and myth intermingled.

San Francisco Chronicle

Only a handful of 20th century writers tantalize our senses as well as Smith. A rare author who wields a razor-sharp sword of craftsmanship.

Tulsa World

He paces his tale as swiftly as he can with swordplay aplenty and killing strokes that come like lightning out of a sunny blue sky.

Kirkus Reviews

Best Historical Novelist—I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August.

Stephen King

Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master.

The Washington Post

Smith manages to serve up adventure, history and melodrama in one thrilling package that will be eagerly devoured by series fans.

Publishers Weekly

This well-crafted novel is full of adventure, tension, and intrigue.

Library Journal

Life-threatening dangers loom around every turn, leaving the reader breathless . . . An incredibly exciting and satisfying read.

Chattanooga Free Press

When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st Century H. Rider Haggard.

Vanity Fair

Also by Wilbur Smith

On Leopard Rock

The Courtney Series

When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

The Burning Shore

Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die

Golden Fox

Birds of Prey

Monsoon

Blue Horizon

The Triumph of the Sun

Assegai

Golden Lion

War Cry

The Tiger’s Prey

The Ballantyne Series

A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

The Triumph of the Sun

The Egyptian Series

River God

The Seventh Scroll

Warlock

The Quest

Desert God

Pharaoh

Hector Cross

Those in Peril

Vicious Circle

Predator

Standalones

The Dark of the Sun

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine

The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf

Hungry as the Sea

Wild Justice

Elephant Song

About the Author

Wilbur Smith is a global phenomenon: a distinguished author with an established readership built up over fifty-five years of writing with sales of over 130 million novels worldwide.

Born in Central Africa in 1933, Wilbur became a fulltime writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds. He has since published over forty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His books have now been translated into twenty-six languages.

The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur’s passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation’s flagship programme is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.

For all the latest information on Wilbur visit www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Zaffre Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd, a Bonnier Publishing company.

80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

Copyright © Orion Mintaka (UK) Ltd. 2018

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Cover design by Lewis Csizmazia.

Cover images © Shutterstock.com.

First published in Great Britain 2003 by Macmillan

First published in the United States of America 2003 by St. Martin’s Press

First Zaffre Publishing Edition 2018

This ebook was produced by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-4998-6103-7

Also available as a trade paperback.

For information, contact 251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

www.bonnierzaffre.com / www.bonnierpublishing.com

Contents

About the Author

Blue Horizon

This book is for my wife

MOKHINISO

who is the best thing

that has ever happened to me

The three stood at the very edge of the sea and watched the moon laying a pathway of shimmering iridescence across the dark waters.

Full of the moon in two days, Jim Courtney said confidently. The big reds will be hungry as lions. A wave came sliding up the beach and foamed around his ankles.

Let’s get her launched, instead of standing here jabbering, his cousin, Mansur Courtney, suggested. His hair shone like newly minted copper in the moonlight, his smile sparkling as brightly. Lightly he elbowed the black youth who stood beside him, wearing only a white loincloth. Come on, Zama. They bent to it together. The small craft slid forward reluctantly, and they heaved again, but this time it stuck fast in the wet sand.

Wait for the next big one, Jim ordered, and they gathered themselves. Here it comes! The swell humped up far out, then raced toward them, gathering height. It burst white on the break-line, then creamed in, throwing the bows of the skiff high and making them stagger with its power—they had to cling to the gunwale with the water swirling waist high around them.

Together now! Jim yelled, and they threw their combined weight on the boat. Run with her! She came unstuck and rode free, and they used the backwash of the wave to take her out until they were shoulder deep. Get on the oars! Jim spluttered as the next wave broke over his head. They reached up, grabbed the side of the skiff and hauled themselves on board, the seawater running off them. Laughing with excitement, they seized the long oars that were lying ready and thrust them between the thole pins.

Heave away! The oars bit, swung and came clear, dripping with silver in the moonlight, leaving tiny luminous whirlpools on the surface. The skiff danced clear of the turbulent break-line, and they fell into the easy rhythm of long practice.

Which way? Mansur asked. Both he and Zama looked naturally to Jim for the decision: Jim was always the leader.

The Cauldron! Jim said, with finality.

I thought so. Mansur laughed. You still got a grudge against Big Julie. Zama spat over the side without missing the stroke.

Have a care, Somoya. Big Julie still has a grudge against you. Zama spoke in Lozi, his native tongue. Somoya meant wild wind. It was the name that Jim had been given in childhood for his temper.

Jim scowled at the memory. None of them had ever laid eyes on the fish they had named Big Julie, but they knew it was a hen not a cock because only the female grew to such size and power. They had felt her power transferred from the depths through the straining cod line. The seawater squirted out of the weave, and smoked as it sped out over the gunwale, cutting a deep furrow in the hardwood as blood dripped from their torn hands.

"In 1715 my father was on the old Maid of Oman when she went aground at Danger Point, Mansur said, in Arabic, his mother’s language. The mate tried to swim ashore to carry a line through the surf and a big red steenbras came up under him when he was half-way across. The water was so clear they could see it coming up from three fathoms down. It bit off the mate’s left leg above the knee and swallowed it in a gulp, like a dog with a chicken wing. The mate was screaming and beating the water, all frothed up with his own blood, trying to scare the fish off, but it circled under him and took the other leg. Then it pulled him under and took him deep. They never saw him again."

You tell that story every time I want to go to the Cauldron, Jim grunted darkly.

And every time it scares seven different colors of dung out of you, said Zama, in English. The three had spent so much time together that they were fluent in each other’s language—English, Arabic and Lozi. They switched between them effortlessly.

Jim laughed, more to relieve his feelings than from amusement, Where, pray, did you learn that disgusting expression, you heathen?

Zama grinned. From your exalted father, he retorted, and for once Jim had no answer.

Instead he looked to the lightening horizon. Sunrise in two hours. I want to be over the Cauldron before then. That’s the best time for another tilt at Julie.

They pulled out into the heart of the bay, riding the long Cape swells that came marching in unfettered ranks from their long journey across the southern Atlantic. With the wind full into the bows they could not hoist the single sail. Behind them rose the moonlit massif of Table Mountain, flat-topped and majestic. There was a dark agglomeration of shipping lying close in below the mountain, riding at anchor, most of the great ships with their yards down. This anchorage was the caravanserai of the southern seas. The trading vessels and warships of the Dutch East India Company, the VOC, and those of half a dozen other nations used the Cape of Good Hope to victual and refit after their long ocean passages.

At this early hour few lights showed on the shore, only dim lanterns on the walls of the castle and in the windows of the beachfront taverns where the crews from the ships in the bay were still reveling. Jim’s eyes went naturally to a single prick of light separated by over a sea mile of darkness from the others. That was the godown and office of the Courtney Brothers Trading Company and he knew the light shone from the window of his father’s office on the second floor of the sprawling warehouse.

Papa is counting the shekels again. He laughed to himself. Tom Courtney, Jim’s father, was one of the most successful traders at Good Hope.

There’s the island coming up, Mansur said, and Jim’s attention came back to the work ahead. He adjusted the tiller rope, which was wrapped around the big toe of his bare right foot. They altered course slightly to port, heading for the north point of Robben Island. Robben was the Dutch word for the seals that swarmed over the rocky outcrop. Already they could smell the animals on the night air: the stench of their fish-laden dung was chokingly powerful. Closer in, Jim stood up on the thwart to get his bearing from the shore, checking the landmarks that would enable him to place the skiff accurately over the deep hole they had named the Cauldron.

Suddenly he shouted with alarm and dropped back onto the thwart. Look at this great oaf! He’s going to run us down. Pull, damn you, pull! A tall ship flying a great mass of canvas, had come silently and swiftly around the north point of the island. Driven on the north-wester it was bearing down on them with terrifying speed.

Bloody cheese-headed Dutchman! Jim swore, as he heaved on the long oar. Murderous landlubbing son of a tavern whore! He’s not even showing a light.

"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 backward, 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 upward with arms and legs. He saw the golden outline of the moon through limpid water, wavering and insubstantial, and swam toward it with all his strength and will. Suddenly he burst out into the air and filled his lungs with it. He rolled onto 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 seawater and vomit. He tried to throw both arms around Jim’s neck, but Jim 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. Bitch-born 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 odor 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 were only a few fingers of freeboard 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 cheesehead cost us an hour’s fishing time, Jim complained bitterly.

Could have cost you a lot more, Somoya, Zama laughed, if I hadn’t been there to pull you out— Jim picked up a dead fish from the bait bag and threw it at his head. They were swiftly recovering their high spirits and camaraderie.

Hold the stroke, we’re coming up on the marks now, Jim warned, and they began the delicate business of maneuvering the skiff into position over the rocky hole in the green depths below them. They had to drop the anchor onto the ledge to the south of the Cauldron, then let the current drift them back over the deep subterranean canyon. The swirling current that gave the place its name complicated their work, and twice they missed the marks. With much sweat and swearing they had to retrieve the fifty-pound boulder that was their anchor and try again. The dawn was sneaking in from the east, stealthily as a thief, before Jim plumbed the depth with an unbaited cod line to make certain they were in the perfect position. He measured the line between the span of his open arms as it streamed over the side.

Thirty-three fathoms! he exclaimed, as he felt the lead sinker bump the bottom. Nearly two hundred feet. We’re right over Big Julie’s dining room. He brought up the sinker swiftly with a swinging double-handed action. Bait up, boys! There was a scramble for the bait bag. Jim reached in and, from under Mansur’s fingers, he snatched the choicest bait of all, a gray mullet as long as his forearm. He had netted it the previous day in the lagoon below the company godown. That’s too good for you, he explained reasonably. Needs a real fisherman to handle Julie. He threaded the point of the steel shark hook through the mullet’s eye sockets. The bight of the hook was two handspans across. Jim shook out the leader. It was ten feet of steel chain, light but strong. Alf, his father’s blacksmith, had hand-forged it especially for him. Jim was certain it would resist the efforts of even a great king steenbras to sheer it against the reef. He swung the bait round his head, letting the heavy cod line pay out with each swing, until at last he released it and sent it with the chain leader to streak far out across the green surface. As the bait sank into the depths he let the line stream after it. Right down Big Julie’s throat, he gloated. This time she isn’t going to get away. This time she’s mine. When he felt the lead sinker hit the bottom, he laid out a coil of the line on the deck and stood firmly on it with his bare right foot. He needed both hands on the oar to counter the current and keep the skiff on station above the Cauldron with the heavy line running straight up and down.

Zama and Mansur were fishing with lighter hooks and lines, using small chunks of mackerel as bait. Almost immediately they were hauling in fish—rosy red stumpnose, wriggling silvery bream, spotted tigers that grunted like piglets as the boys twisted out the hook and threw them into the bilges.

Baby fish for little boys! Jim mocked them. Diligently he tended his own heavy line, rowing quietly to hold the skiff steady across the current. The sun rose clear of the horizon and took the chill out of the air. The three stripped off their outer clothing until they were clad only in breech clouts.

Close at hand the seals swarmed over the rocks of the island, dived and roiled close around the anchored skiff. Suddenly a big dog seal dived under the boat and seized the fish Mansur was bringing up, tore it from the hook and surfaced yards away with it in its jaws.

Abomination, cursed of God! Mansur shouted in outrage as the seal held the plundered fish on its chest and tore off hunks of flesh with gleaming fangs. Jim dropped the oar and reached into his tackle bag. He brought out his slingshot, and fitted a water-worn pebble into the pouch. He had selected his ammunition from the bed of the stream at the north end of the estate, and each stone was round, smooth and perfectly weighted. Jim had practiced with the slingshot until he could bring down a high-flying goose with four throws out of five. He wound up for the throw, swinging the slingshot overhead until it hummed with power. Then he released it and the pebble blurred from the pouch. It caught the dog seal in the center of its rounded black skull and they heard the fragile bone shatter. The animal died instantly, and its carcass drifted away on the current, twitching convulsively.

He won’t be stealing any more fish. Jim stuffed the slingshot back in the bag. And the others will have learned a lesson in manners. The rest of the seal pack sheered away from the skiff. Jim took up the oar again, and they resumed their interrupted conversation.

Only the previous week Mansur had returned on one of the Courtney ships from a trading voyage up the east coast of Africa as far as the Horn of Hormuz. He was describing to them the wonders he had seen and the marvelous adventures he had shared with his father, who had captained the Gift of Allah.

Mansur’s father, Dorian Courtney, was the other partner in the company. In his extreme youth he had been captured by Arabian pirates and sold to a prince of Oman, who had adopted him and converted him to Islam. His half-brother Tom Courtney was Christian, while Dorian was Muslim. When Tom had found and rescued his younger brother they had made a happy partnership. Between them they had entry to both religious worlds, and their enterprise had flourished. Over the last twenty years they had traded in India, Arabia and Africa, and sold their exotic goods in Europe.

As Mansur spoke Jim watched his cousin’s face, and once again he envied his beauty and his charm. Mansur had inherited it from his father, along with the red-gold hair that hung thickly down his back. Like Dorian he was lithe and quick, while Jim took after his own father, broad and strong. Zama’s father, Aboli, had compared them to the bull and the gazelle.

Come on, coz! Mansur broke off his tale to tease Jim. Zama and I will have the boat filled to the gunwales before you have even woken up. Catch us a fish!

I have always prized quality above mere quantity, Jim retorted, in a pitying tone.

Well, you have nothing better to do, so you can tell us about your journey to the land of the Hottentots. Mansur swung another gleaming flapping fish over the side of the skiff.

Jim’s plain, honest face lit up with pleasure at the memory of his own adventure. Instinctively he looked northward across the bay at the rugged mountains, which the morning sun was painting with brightest gold. We traveled for thirty-eight days, he boasted, north across the mountains and the great desert, far beyond the frontiers of this colony, which the Governor and the Council of the VOC in Amsterdam have forbidden any man to cross. We trekked into lands where no white man has been before us. He did not have the fluency or the poetic descriptive powers of his cousin, but his enthusiasm was contagious. Mansur and Zama laughed with him, as he described the barbaric tribes they had encountered and the endless herds of wild game spread across the plains. At intervals he appealed to Zama, It’s true what I say, isn’t it, Zama? You were with me. Tell Mansur it’s true.

Zama nodded solemnly. It is true. I swear it on the grave of my own father. Every word is true.

One day I will go back. Jim made the promise to himself, rather than to the others. I will go back and cross the blue horizon, to the very limit of this land.

And I will go with you, Somoya! Zama looked at him with complete trust and affection.

Zama remembered what his own father had said of Jim when at last he lay dying on his sleeping kaross, burned out with age, a ruined giant whose strength had seemed once to hold the very sky suspended. Jim Courtney is the true son of his father, Aboli had whispered. Cleave to him as I have to Tom. You will never regret it, my son.

I will go with you, Zama repeated, and Jim winked at him.

Of course you will, you rogue. Nobody else would have you. He clapped Zama on the back so hard he almost knocked him off the thwart.

He would have said more but at that moment the coil of cod line jerked under his foot and he let out a triumphant shout. Julie knocks at the door. Come in, Big Julie! He dropped the oar and snatched up the line. He held it strung between both his hands with a slack bight ready to feed out over the side. Without being ordered to do so the other two retrieved their own rigs, stripping the line in over the gunwale, hand over hand, working with feverish speed. They knew how vital it was to give Jim open water in which to work with a truly big fish.

Come, my prettyling! Jim whispered to the fish, as he held the line delicately between thumb and finger. He could feel nothing, just the soft press of the current. Come, my darling! Papa loves you, he pleaded.

Then he felt a new pressure on the line, a gentle almost furtive movement. Every nerve in his body jerked bowstring taut. She’s there. She’s still there.

The line went slack again, Don’t leave me, sweetest heart. Please don’t leave me. Jim leaned out over the side of the skiff, holding the line high so that it ran straight from his fingers into the green swirl of the waters. The others watched without daring to draw breath. Then, suddenly, they saw his raised right hand drawn down irresistibly by some massive weight. They watched the muscles in his arms and back coil and bunch, like an adder preparing to strike, and neither spoke or moved as the hand holding the line almost touched the surface of the sea.

Yes! said Jim quietly. Now! He reared back with the weight of his body behind the strike. Yes! And yes and yes! Each time he said it he heaved back on the line, swinging with alternate arms, right, left and right again. There was no give even to Jim’s strength.

That can’t be a fish, said Mansur. No fish is that strong. You must have hooked the bottom. Jim did not answer him. Now he was leaning back with all his weight, his knees jammed against the wooden gunwale to give himself full purchase. His teeth were gritted, his face turned puce and his eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets.

Tail onto the line! he gasped, and the other two scrambled down the deck to help him, but before they reached the stern Jim was jerked off his feet, and sprawled against the side of the boat. The line raced through his fingers, and they could smell the skin, burning like mutton ribs grilling on the coals, as it tore from his palm.

Jim yelled with pain but held on grimly. With a mighty effort he managed to get the line across the edge of the gunwale and tried to jam it there. But he lost more skin as his knuckles slammed into the wood. With one hand he snatched off his cap to use as a glove while he held the line against the wood. All three were yelling like demons in hellfire.

Give me a hand! Grab the end!

Let him run. You’ll straighten the hook.

Get the bucket. Throw water on it! The line will burst into flames!

Zama managed to get both hands on the line, but even with their combined strength they could not stop the run of the great fish. The line hissed with the strain as it raced over the side, and they could feel the sweep of the great tail pulsing through it.

Water, for the love of Christ, wet it down! Jim howled, and Mansur scooped a bucketful from alongside and dashed it over their hands and the sizzling line. There was a puff of steam as the water boiled off.

By God! We’ve almost lost all of this coil, Jim shouted, as he saw the end of the line in the bottom of the wooden tub that held it. Quick as you can, Mansur! Tie on another coil. Mansur worked quickly, with the dexterity for which he was renowned, but he was only just in time; as he tightened the knot the rope was jerked from his grasp and pulled through the fingers of the other two, ripping off more skin, before it went over the side and down into the green depths.

Stop! Jim pleaded with the fish. Are you trying to kill us, Julie? Will you not stop, my beauty?

That’s half the second coil gone already, Mansur warned them. Let me take over from you, Jim. There’s blood all over the deck.

No, no. Jim shook his head vehemently. She’s slowing down. Heart’s almost broken.

Yours or hers? Mansur asked.

Go on the stage, coz, Jim advised him grimly. Your wit is wasted here.

The running line began to slow as it passed through their torn fingers. Then it stopped. Leave the water bucket, Jim ordered. Get a grip on the line. Mansur hung on behind Zama and, with the extra weight, Jim could let go with one hand and suck his fingers. Do we do this for fun? he asked, wonderingly. Then his voice became businesslike. Now it’s our turn, Julie.

Keeping pressure on the line while they moved, they rearranged themselves down the length of the deck, standing nose to tail, bent double with the line passed back between their legs.

One, two and a tiger! Jim gave them the timing, and they heaved the line in, swinging their weight on it together. The knotted joint came back in over the side, and Mansur, as third man, coiled the line back into the tub. Four times more the great fish gathered its strength and streaked away and they were forced to let it take out line, but each time the run was shorter. Then they turned its head and brought it back, struggling and jolting, its strength slowly waning.

Suddenly Jim at the head of the line gave a shout of joy. There she is! I can see her down there. The fish turned in a wide circle deep below the hull. As she came round her bronze-red side caught the sunlight and flashed like a mirror.

Sweet Jesus, she’s beautiful! Jim could see the fish’s huge golden eye staring up at him through the emerald-colored water. The steenbras’s mouth opened and closed spasmodically, the gill plates flaring as they pumped water through, starving for oxygen. Those jaws were cavernous enough to take in a grown man’s head and shoulders, and they were lined with serried ranks of fangs as long and thick as his forefinger.

Now I believe Uncle Dorry’s tale. Jim gasped with the exertion. Those teeth could easily bite off a man’s leg.

At last, almost two hours after Jim had first set the hook in the hinge of the fish’s jaw, they had it alongside the skiff. Between them they lifted the gigantic head clear of the water. As soon as they did so the fish went into its last frenzy. Its body was half as long again as a tall man, and as thick around the middle as a Shetland pony. It pulsed and flexed until its nose touched the wide flukes of its tail, first on the one side, then on the other. It threw up sheets of seawater that came aboard in solid gouts, drenching the three lads as though they stood under a waterfall. They held on grimly, until the violent paroxysms weakened. Then Jim called out, Hang on to her! She’s ready for the priest.

He snatched up the billy from its sling under the transom. The end of the club was weighted with lead, balanced and heavy in his big right hand. He lifted the fish’s head high and swung his weight behind the blow. It caught the fish across the bony ridge above those glaring yellow eyes. The massive body stiffened in death and violent tremors ran down its shimmering sun-red flanks. Then the life went out of it and, white belly uppermost, it floated alongside the skiff with its gill plates open wide as a lady’s parasol.

Drenched with sweat and seawater, panting wildly, nursing their torn hands, they leaned on the transom and gazed in awe upon the marvelous creature they had killed. There were no words to express adequately the overpowering emotions of triumph and remorse, of jubilation and melancholy that gripped them now that the ultimate passion of the hunter had come to its climax.

In the Name of the Prophet, this is Leviathan indeed, Mansur said softly. He makes me feel so small.

The sharks will be here any minute. Jim broke the spell. Help me get her on board. They threaded the rope through the fish’s gills, then all three hauled on it, the skiff listing dangerously close to the point of capsizing as they brought it over the side. The boat was barely large enough to contain its bulk and there was no room for them to sit on the thwarts so they perched on the gunwale. A scale had been torn off as the fish slid over the side: it was the size of a gold doubloon and as bright.

Mansur picked it up, and turned it to catch the sunlight, staring at it with fascination. We must take this fish home to High Weald, he said.

Why? Jim asked brusquely.

To show the family, my father and yours.

By nightfall she’ll have lost her color, her scales will be dry and dull, and her flesh will start to rot and stink. Jim shook his head. I want to remember her like this, in all her glory.

What are we going to do with her then?

Sell her to the purser of the VOC ship.

Such a wonderful creature. Sell her like a sack of potatoes? That seems like sacrilege, Mansur protested.

‘I give you of the beasts of the earth and the fish of the sea.’ Kill! Eat! Jim quoted. Genesis. God’s very words. How could it be sacrilege?

Your God, not mine, Mansur contradicted him.

He’s the same God, yours and mine. We just call him different names.

He is my God also. Zama was not to be left out. Kulu Kulu, the Greatest of the Great Ones.

Jim wrapped a strip of cloth round his injured hand. In the name of Kulu Kulu then. This steenbras is the means to get aboard the Dutch ship. I am going to use it as a letter of introduction to the purser. It’s not just one fish I’m going to sell him, it’s all the produce from High Weald.

With the north-westerly breeze blowing ten knots behind them they could hoist the single sail, which carried them swiftly into the bay. There were eight ships lying at anchor under the guns of the castle. Most had been there for weeks and were already well provisioned.

Jim pointed out the latest arrival. They will not have set foot on land for months. They will be famished for fresh food. They are probably riddled with scurvy already. Jim put the tiller over and wove through the anchored shipping. After what they almost did to us, they owe us a nice bit of profit. All the Courtneys were traders to the core of their being and for even the youngest of them the word profit held almost religious significance. Jim headed for the Dutch ship. It was a tall three-decker, twenty guns a side, square-rigged, three masts, big and beamy, obviously an armed trader. She flew the VOC pennant and the flag of the Dutch Republic. As they closed with her Jim could see the storm damage to hull and rigging. Clearly she had endured a rough passage. Closer still, Jim could make out the ship’s name on her stern in faded gilt lettering: Het Gelukkige Meeuw, the Lucky Seagull. He grinned at how inappropriately the shabby old lady had been named. Then his green eyes narrowed with surprise and interest.

Women, by God! He pointed ahead. Hundreds of them. Both Mansur and Zama scrambled to their feet, clung to the mast and peered ahead, shading their eyes against the sun.

You’re right! Mansur exclaimed. Apart from the wives of the burghers, their stolid, heavily chaperoned daughters and the trollops of the waterfront taverns, women were rare at the Cape of Good Hope.

Look at them, Jim breathed with awe. Just look at those beauties. Forward of the mainmast the deck was crowded with female shapes.

How do you know they’re beautiful? Mansur demanded. We’re too far away to tell. They’re probably ugly old crones.

No, God could not be so cruel to us. Jim laughed excitedly. Every one of them is an angel from heaven. I just know it!

There was a small group of officers on the quarter-deck, and knots of seamen were already at work repairing the damaged rigging and painting the hull. But the three youths in the skiff had eyes only for the female shapes on the foredeck. Once again they caught a whiff of the stench that hung over the ship, and Jim exclaimed with horror: They’re in leg irons. He had the sharpest eyesight of the three and had seen that the ranks of women were shuffling along the deck in single file, with the hampered gait of the chained captive.

Convicts! Mansur agreed. Your angels from heaven are female convicts. Uglier than sin.

They were close enough now to make out the features of some of the bedraggled creatures, the gray, greasy hair, the toothless mouths, the wrinkled pallor of ancient skin, the sunken eyes and, on most of the miserable faces, the ugly blotches and bruises of scurvy. They stared down on the approaching boat with dull, hopeless eyes, showing no interest, no emotion of any kind.

Even Jim’s lascivious instincts were cooled. These were no longer human beings, but beaten, abused animals. Their coarse canvas shifts were ragged and soiled. Obviously they had worn them ever since leaving Amsterdam, without water to wash their bodies, let alone their clothing. There were guards armed with muskets stationed in the mainmast bitts and the forecastle overlooking the deck. As the skiff came within hail a petty officer in a blue pea-jacket hurried to the ship’s side and raised a speaking trumpet to his lips. Stand clear, he shouted in Dutch. This is a prison ship. Stand off or we will fire into you.

He means it, Jim, Mansur said. Let’s get away from her.

Jim ignored the suggestion and held up one of the fish. "Vars vis! Fresh fish, he yelled back. Straight out of the sea. Caught an hour ago. The man at the rail hesitated, and Jim sensed his opportunity. Look at this one. He pointed at the huge carcass that filled most of the skiff. Steenbras! Finest eating fish in the sea! There’s enough here to feed every man on board for a week."

Wait! the man yelled back, and hurried across the deck to the group of officers. There was a brief discussion, then he came back to the rail. Good, then. Come! But keep clear of our bows. Hook on to the stern chains.

Mansur dropped the tiny sail and they rowed under the side of the ship. Three seamen stood at the rail, aiming their muskets down into the skiff.

Don’t try anything clever, the petty officer warned them, unless you want a ball in your belly.

Jim grinned up at him ingratiatingly and showed his empty hands. We mean no harm, Mijnheer. We are honest fishermen. He was still fascinated by the lines of chained women, and stared up at them with revulsion and pity as they shuffled in a sorry line along the near rail. Then he switched his attention to bringing the skiff alongside. He did this with a seamanlike flourish, and Zama tossed the painter up to a seaman who was waiting in the chains above them.

The ship’s purser, a plump bald man, stuck his head over the side and peered down into the skiff to inspect the wares on offer. He looked impressed by the size of the giant steenbras carcass. I’m not going to shout. Come up here where we can talk, the purser invited Jim, and ordered a seaman to drop a rope-ladder over the side. This was the invitation Jim had been angling for. He shinned up and over the high tumble-home of the ship’s side like an acrobat, and landed on the deck beside the purser with a slap of his bare feet.

How much for the big one? The purser’s question was ambiguous, and he ran a pederast’s calculating glance over Jim’s body. A fine bit of beef, he thought, as he studied the muscled chest and arms, and the long, shapely legs, smooth and tanned by the sun.

Fifteen silver guilders for the entire load of our fish. Jim placed emphasis on the last word. The purser’s interest in him was obvious.

Are you an escaped lunatic? the purser retorted. You, your fish and your dirty little boat together are not worth half that much.

The boat and I are not for sale, Jim assured him, with relish. When he was bargaining he was in his element. His father had trained him well. He had no compunction in taking advantage of the purser’s sexual predilections to push him for the best price. They settled on eight guilders for the full load.

I want to keep the smallest fish for my family’s dinner. Jim said, and the purser chuckled. "You drive a hard bargain, kerel." He spat on his right hand and proffered it. Jim spat on his own and they shook hands to seal the bargain.

The purser held on to Jim’s hand for a little longer than was necessary. What else have you got for sale, young stallion? He winked at Jim and ran his tongue round his fat, sun-cracked lips.

Jim did not answer him at once, but went to the rail to watch the crew of Het Gelukkige Meeuw lower a cargo net into the skiff. With difficulty Mansur and Zama slid the huge fish into it. Then it was hoisted up and swung onto the deck. Jim turned back to the purser. I can sell you a load of fresh vegetables—potatoes, onions, pumpkins, fruit, anything you want at half the price they will charge you if you buy from the Company gardens, Jim told him.

You know full well that the VOC has the monopoly, the purser demurred. I am forbidden to buy from private traders.

I can fix that with a few guilders in the right pocket. Jim touched the side of his nose. Everyone knew how simple it was to placate the Company officials at Good Hope. Corruption was a way of life in the colonies.

Very well, then. Bring me out a load of the best you have, the purser agreed, and laid an avuncular hand on Jim’s arm. But don’t get caught at it. We don’t want a pretty boy like you all cut up with the lash. Jim evaded his touch without making it obvious. Never upset a customer. There was a sudden commotion on the foredeck and, grateful for the respite from these plump and sweaty attentions, Jim glanced over his shoulder.

The first group of women prisoners was being herded down below decks, and another line was coming up into the open air for their exercise. Jim stared at the girl at the head of this new file of prisoners. His breath came short and his pulse pounded in his ears. She was tall, but starved thin and pale. She wore a shift of threadbare canvas, with a hem so tattered that her knees showed through the holes. Her legs were thin and bony, the flesh melted off by starvation, and her arms were the same. Under the shapeless canvas her body seemed boyish, lacking the swells and round contours of a woman. But Jim was not looking at her body: he was gazing at her face.

Her head was small but gracefully poised on her long neck, like an unopened tulip on its stem. Her skin was pale and flawless, so fine in texture that he imagined he could see her cheekbones through it. Even in her terrible circumstances she had clearly made an effort to prevent herself sinking into the slough of despair. Her hair was pulled back from her face, plaited into a thick rope that hung forward over one shoulder, and she had contrived somehow to keep it clean and combed. It reached down almost to her waist, fine as spun Chinese silk and blonde, dazzling as a golden guinea in the sunlight. But it was her eyes that stopped Jim’s breath altogether for a long minute. They were blue, the color of the high African sky in midsummer. When she looked upon him for the first time they opened wide. Then her lips parted and her teeth were white and even, with no gaps between them. She stopped abruptly, and the woman behind stumbled into her. Both lost their balance and almost fell. Their leg irons clanked, and the other woman thrust her forward roughly, cursing her in the accents of the Antwerp docklands. Come on, princess, move your pretty pussy.

The girl did not seem to notice.

One of the jailers stepped up behind her. Keep moving, you stupid cow. With the length of knotted rope he hit her across the top of her thin bare arm, raising a vivid red welt. Jim fought to stop himself rushing to protect her, and the nearest guard sensed the movement. He swung the muzzle of his musket toward Jim, who stepped back. He knew that at that range the buckshot would have disemboweled him. But the girl had seen his gesture too, recognized something in him. She stumbled forward, her eyes filled with tears of pain from the lash, massaging the crimson welt with her other hand. She kept those haunting eyes on his face as she passed where Jim stood rooted to the deck. He knew it was dangerous and futile to speak to her, but the words were out before he could bite down on them and there was pity in his tone. They’ve starved you.

A pale travesty of a smile flickered across her lips, but she gave no other sign of having heard him. Then the harridan in the line behind her shoved her forward: No young cock for you today, your highness. You’ll have to use your finger. Keep moving. The girl went on down the deck away from him.

"Let me give you some advice, kerel, said the purser at his shoulder. Don’t try anything with any of those bitches. That’s the shortest way to hell."

Jim mustered a grin. I’m a brave man, but not a stupid one. He held out his hand and the purser counted eight silver coins into his palm. He swung a leg over the rail. I’ll bring out a load of vegetables for you tomorrow. Then perhaps we can go ashore together and have a grog in one of the taverns. As he dropped down into the skiff, he muttered, Or I could break your neck and both your fat legs. He took his place at the tiller.

Cast off, hoist the sail, he called to Zama, and brought the skiff onto the wind. They skimmed down the side of the Meeuw. The port-lids on the gunports were open to let light and air into the gundecks. Jim looked into the nearest as he came level. The crowded, fetid gundeck was a vision from hell, and the stench was like a pig-sty or cesspit. Hundreds of human beings had been crowded into that low, narrow space for months without relief.

Jim tore away his gaze, and glanced up at the ship’s rail, high above his head. He was still looking for the girl, but he expected to be disappointed. Then his pulse leaped as those unbelievably blue eyes stared down at him. In the line of women prisoners the girl was shuffling along the rail near the bows.

Your name? What’s your name? he called urgently. At that moment to know it was the most important thing in the world.

Her reply was faint on the wind, but he read it on her lips: Louisa.

I’ll come back, Louisa. Be of good cheer, he shouted recklessly, and she stared at him expressionlessly. Then he did something even more reckless. He knew it was madness, but she was starved. He snatched up the red stumpnose he had kept back from the sale. It weighed almost ten pounds but he tossed it up lightly. Louisa reached out and caught it in both hands, with a hungry, desperate expression on her face. The grotesque troll in the line behind her jumped forward and tried to wrest it out of her grasp. Immediately three or four other women joined the struggle, fighting over the fish like a pack of she-wolves. Then the jailers rushed in to break up the mêlée, flogging and lashing the shrieking women with the knotted ropes. Jim turned away, sick to the guts, his heart torn with pity and with some other emotion he did not recognize for he had never experienced it before.

The three sailed on in grim silence, but every few minutes Jim turned to look back at the prison ship.

There is nothing you can do for her, Mansur said at last. Forget her, coz. She’s out of your reach.

Jim’s face darkened with anger and frustration. Is she? You think you know everything, Mansur Courtney. We shall see. We shall see!

On the beach ahead one of the grooms was holding a string of harnessed mules, ready to help them beach the skiff. Don’t just sit there like a pair of cormorants drying your wings on a rock. Get the sail down, Jim snarled at the other two with the formless, undirected anger still dark upon him.

They waited on the first line of the surf, hanging on the oars, waiting for the right wave. When Jim saw it coming he shouted, Here we go. Give way together. Pull!

It swept under the stern and then suddenly, exhilaratingly, they were surfing on the brow of the curling green wave, racing onto the beach. The wave carried them high, then pulled back to leave them stranded. They jumped out and when the groom galloped in with the team of mules, they hitched onto the trek chain. They ran beside the team, whooping to drive them on, dragging the skiff well above the high-water mark, then unhitched it.

I’ll need the team again first thing tomorrow morning, Jim told the groom. Have them ready.

So, we’re going out to that hell ship again, are we? Mansur asked flatly.

To take them a load of vegetables. Jim feigned innocence.

What do you want to trade in return? Mansur asked, with equal insouciance. Jim punched his arm lightly and they jumped onto the bare backs of the mules. Jim took one last, brooding look across the bay to where the prison ship was anchored, then they rode round the shore of the lagoon, up the hill toward the whitewashed buildings of the estate, the homestead and the godown that Tom Courtney had named High Weald after the great mansion in Devon where he and Dorian had been born, and which neither of them had laid eyes on for so many years.

The name was the only thing that the two houses had in common. This one was built in the Cape style. The roof was thatched thickly with reeds. The graceful gabled ends and the archway leading into the central courtyard had been designed by the celebrated Dutch architect, Anreith. The name of the estate and the family emblem were incorporated into the ornate fresco of cherubs and saints above the archway. The emblem depicted a long-barreled cannon on its wheeled carriage with a ribbon below it, and the letters CBTC for Courtney Brothers Trading Company. In a separate panel was the legend: High Weald, 1711. The house had been built in the same year that Jim and Mansur were born.

As they clattered through the archway and into the cobbled courtyard, Tom Courtney came stamping out of the main doors of the warehouse. He was a big man, over six foot tall, heavy in the shoulders. His dense black beard was shot through with silver and his pate was innocent of a single strand of hair, but thick curls surrounded the shiny bald scalp and bushed down the back of his neck. His belly, once flat and hard, had taken on a magisterial girth. His craggy features were laced with webs of laughter lines, while his eyes gleamed with humor and the contentment of a supremely confident, prosperous man.

James Courtney! You’ve been gone so long I’d forgotten what you looked like. It’s good of you to drop in. I hate to trouble you, but do any of you intend doing any work this day?

Jim hunched his shoulders guiltily. We were almost run down by a Dutch ship, damned nigh sunk us. Then we caught a red steenbras the size of a carthorse. It took two hours to bring it in. We had to take it out to sell to one of the ships in the bay.

By Jesus, boy, you’ve had a busy morning. Don’t tell me the rest of your tribulations, let me guess. You were attacked by a French ship-of-the-line, and charged by a wounded hippo. Tom roared with delight at his own wit. Anyway, how much did you get for a carthorse-sized steenbras? he demanded.

Eight silver guilders.

Tom whistled. It must have been a monster. Then his expression became serious. Ain’t no excuse, lad. I didn’t give you the week off. You should have been back hours ago.

I haggled with the purser of the Dutch ship, Jim told him. He will take all the provender we can send him—and at good prices, Papa.

A shrewd expression replaced the laughter in Tom’s eyes. Seems you ain’t wasted your time. Well done, lad.

At that moment a fine-looking woman, almost as tall as Tom, stepped out of the kitchens at the opposite end of the courtyard. Her hair was scraped up into a heavy bun on top of her head, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up around her plump sun-browned arms. Tom Courtney, don’t you realize the poor child left this morning without breakfast. Let him eat a meal before you bully him any more.

Sarah Courtney, Tom shouted back, this poor child of yours isn’t five years old any longer.

It’s your lunchtime too. Sarah changed tack. Yasmini, the girls and I have been slaving over the stove all morning. Come along now, all of you.

Tom threw up his hands in capitulation. Sarah, you’re a tyrant, but I could eat a buffalo bull with the horns on, he said. He came down off the veranda and put one arm around Jim’s shoulders, the other round Mansur’s and led them toward the kitchen door, where Sarah waited for them with her arms powdered to the elbows with flour.

Zama took the team of mules and led them out of the courtyard toward the stables. Zama, tell my brother that the ladies are waiting lunch for him, Tom called after him,

"I will tell him, oubaas!" Zama used the most respectful term of address for the master of High Weald.

As soon as you have finished eating, you get back here with all the men, Jim warned him. "We have to pick and load a cargo of vegetables to take out to the Lucky Seagull tomorrow."

The kitchen was bustling with women, most of them freed house slaves, graceful, golden-skinned Javanese women from Batavia. Jim went to embrace his mother.

Sarah pretended to be put out, Don’t be a great booby, James, but she flushed with pleasure as he lifted her and bussed her on both cheeks. Put me down at once and let me get on.

If you don’t love me then at least Aunt Yassie does. He went to the delicate, lovely woman who was wrapped in the arms of her own son. Come now, Mansur! It’s my turn now. He lifted Yasmini out of Mansur’s embrace. She wore a long ghāgrā skirt and a colī blouse of vivid silk. She was as slim and light as a girl, her skin a glowing amber, her slanting eyes dark as onyx. The snowy blaze through the front of her dense dark hair was not a sign of age: she had been born with it, as had her mother and grandmother before her.

With the women fussing over them, the men seated themselves at the top of the long yellow-wood table, which was piled with bowls and platters. There were dishes of bobootie curry in the Malayan style, redolent with mutton and spices, rich with eggs and yogurt, an enormous venison pie, made with potatoes and the meat of the springbuck Jim and Mansur had shot out in the open veld, loaves of bread still hot from the oven, pottery crocks of yellow butter, jugs of thick sour milk and small beer.

Where is Dorian? Tom demanded, from the head of the table. Late again!

Did someone call my name? Dorian sauntered into the kitchen, still lean and athletic, handsome and debonair, his head a mass of copper curls to match his son’s. He wore high riding boots that were dusty to the knees, and a

Reviews for Blue Horizon

[richardgarside · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great paced adventure story - Indiana Jones style. Action all the way and pure escapism

[sandra2891 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I can't stop reading Wilbur Smith. His books are action packed with fantastic characters. YOu can't stop reading because you want to know what will happen! Blue Horizon is great. I read Monsoon first and then this one. It's a continuation of the Courtney Family in Africa in the 1700's. Dorian and Tom are older now and their sons feature heavily in this book. I completely recommend it.

[jaygheiser · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another great read about the larger than life Courtneys. Tom's son Jim steals a prisoner from a Dutch slaver, and treks all the way across what will eventually become South Africa, the whole family sets up a new town in Nativity Bay while Dorian returns t

[sharlene_w · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm not sure how this book landed on my list of books to read as I was not familiar with the author or the title, but I ordered it up from my local library on CD and from the first disc I was hooked. I was spellbound by this explosive adventure story with its multiple plots filled with intrigue, tragedy, violence, vengeance and passion. Wilbur Smith weaves a story that is so descriptive and exciting that I was swept away to South Africa. Now that is is done, I learn that it is the third in a series (preceded by Monsoon and Birds of Prey), but I didn't feel my experience was diminished by not reading them first.