Malcolm nodded. “The Wild Coast is notorious for shipwrecks, particularly when summer storms hit the Drakensbergs. And as Jesuits, we ought to be welcomed.”
They both carried bladed weapons just in case they weren’t.
Lightning flares cut through the gloom of early evening, revealing the miserable little fort and ramshackle houses of Lourengo Marques huddled on the bay. A stout kraal wall enclosed the whole community. Kit marked the spot where the time gate had closed by piling stones into a small cairn, then he and Malcolm slogged down the rainswept beach toward the trading settlement and prayed for the best. They passed grain fields where straggling wheat lay flat under the onslaught of the storm.
Vegetable gardens sprawled in patchwork confusion beyond an unguarded kraal gate. Wet chickens hid under the houses. Pens for hogs stank and leaked filth into the mud streets. Thin, forlorn cows huddled against the rain and a few sheep and goats milled uncertainly in a high-walled pen. A horse neighed once, answered by others in the distance.
”Where is everyone?” Malcolm wondered aloud: “There should be a watch set, even in this storm.”
Kit cupped hands over his eyes to blink them clear of streaming rain. “Probably at the fort,” he decided. “The wall’s higher, stouter in case of emergencies. We’ll try there.”
When they stumbled between the houses into “town square” they halted in unison. The residents of Lourengo Marques had set up a crude pillory along one side of the square. Hanging from the stocks was a familiar, grizzled figure. Malcolm and Kit glanced swiftly around but saw no sign that anyone was watching. The whole town was shut up tight against the storm. Malcolm got to him first. Koot van Beek was dead, Had been dead for several hours, maybe as long as a day. Kit was ashen in the wild flares of lighting.