“There are dòzens of them—Mercury, Ichabod, Plum Pudding
Jamie gave him a strange look. “Plum Pudding?”
“There’s also a Roast Beef Island.”
Jamie took out his creased map and consulted it. “This doesn’t show any of those.”
“They’re guano islands. The British harvest the bird droppings for fertilizer.”
“Anyone live on those islands?”
“Can’t. The smell’s too bad. In places the guano is a hundred feet thick. The government uses gangs of deserters and prisoners to pick it up. Some of them die on the island and they just leave the bodies there.”
“That’s where we’ll hide out,” Jamie decided.
Working quietly, the two men slid open the door to the warehouse and started to lift the raft. It was too heavy to move. They sweated and tugged, but in vain.
“Wait here,” Banda said.
He hurried out. Half an hour later, he returned with a large, round log. “We’ll use this. I’ll pick up one end and you slide the log underneath.”
Jamie marveled at Banda’s strength as the black man picked up one end of the raft. Quickly, Jamie shoved the log under it. Together they lifted the back end of the raft and it moved easily down the log. When the log had rolled out from under the back end, they repeated the procedure. It was strenuous work, and by the time they got to the beach they were both soaked in perspiration. The operation had taken much longer than Jamie had anticipated. It was almost dawn now. They had to be away before the villagers discovered them and reported what they were doing. Quickly, Jamie attached the sail and checked to make sure everything was working properly. He had a nagging feeling he was forgetting something. He suddenly realized what was bothering him and laughed aloud.
Banda watched him, puzzled. “Something funny?”
“Before, when I went looking for diamonds I had a ton of equipment. Now all I’m carrying is a compass. It seems too easy.”
Banda said quietly, “I don’t think that’s going to be our problem, Mr. McGregor.”
“It’s time you called me Jamie.”
Banda shook his head in wonder. “You really come from a faraway country.” He grinned, showing even white teeth. “What the hell—they can hang me only once.” He tasted the name on his lips, then said it aloud. “Jamie.”
“Let’s go get those diamonds.”
They pushed the raft off the sand into the shallow water and both men leaped aboard and started paddling. It took them a few minutes to get adjusted to the pitching and yawing of their strange craft. It was like riding a bobbing cork, but it was going to work. The raft was responding perfectly, moving north with the swift current. Jamie raised the sail and headed out to sea. By the time the villagers awoke, the raft was well over the horizon.
“We’ve done it!” Jamie said.
Banda shook his head. “It’s not over yet.” He trailed a hand in the cold Benguela current. “It’s just beginning.”
They sailed on, due north past Alexander Bay and the mouth of the Orange River, seeing no signs of life except for flocks of Cape cormorants heading home, and a flight of colorful greater flamingos. Although there were tins of beef and cold rice, and fruit and two canteens of water aboard, they were too nervous to eat. Jamie refused to let his imagination linger on the dangers that lay ahead, but Banda could not help it. He had been there. He was remembering the brutal guards with guns and the dogs and the terrible flesh-tearing land mines, and he wondered how he had ever allowed himself to be talked into this insane venture. He looked over at the Scotsman and thought, He is the bigger fool. If I die, I die for my baby sister. What does he die for?
At noon the sharks came. There were half a dozen of them, their fins cutting through the water as they sped toward the raft.
“Black-fin sharks,” Banda announced. “They’re man-eaters.”
Jamie watched the fins skimming closer to the raft. “What do we do?”
Banda swallowed nervously. “Truthfully, Jamie, this is my very first experience of this nature.”