Another cannon rang across the water, this time from Robben Island behind them. The signal gun must have alerted the guards. They had checked the cells and found one empty. Now there was no doubting it: they knew about the escape.

  Ralph cursed his luck. The breaching whale must have caught the attention of the lookout on Signal Hill. He would have trained his spyglass on it, and seen the vessel lifted high out of the water on the wave. Surely a chance in a thousand – a bored lookout, the whale and a night so clear that you could see what the governor was eating for dinner from a three hundred yards through his dining room window.

  Ralph listened to the night, trying to block out the noise the paddles made. Over to the right, he could see the glow of watch fires from the castle that guarded Cape Town. Had they heard the alarm? Would they be saddling up to come and catch the fugitives when they reached shore?

  He was listening so intently, he almost missed the sound that mattered. A dull roar, ever present, getting gradually louder. The sound of surf. He peered forward and saw a line of white foam in the moonlight where waves broke on an empty beach.

  ‘We are nearly there!’ he exulted.

  Dark points glistened like daggers in the water where rocks jutted out. Ralph and Jobe paddled with renewed energy, pushing the boat faster. The waves rose as they approached the beach, spilling more water into the boat. The cup for baling was pitifully inadequate. Marius pumped his arms like a madman.

  And then suddenly they were overboard. Whether it was a rock, or a wave, or Marius’s frantic motion – or whether the boat finally gave way at the seams – one moment Ralph was paddling, with the beach only twenty yards away; the next he was underwater, being spun about like a rag in a storm.

  He kicked out and broke the surface, spitting salt water as he searched for his companions. Jobe had clung to his oar and was using it to keep afloat. But there was no sign of Marius – except a thrashing spout of foam away to Ralph’s left.

  Marius was a big, strong man but he could not swim. He splashed and kicked, got his head above water for a second, and then sank back.

  With two strokes, Ralph reached the drowning man. He was welcomed by Marius’s flailing elbow. He ducked under it, snaked his arm around Marius’s shoulders and lifted. Even in the water, the Dutchman’s weight was immense. While he writhed and struggled, Ralph could not support him.

  If Marius could not keep still, he would drown them both. Ralph drew back his free arm and punched Marius hard in his face.

  The Dutchman went limp. Before he could recover, Ralph hoisted him up and swam inshore with brisk scissor kicks. Soon his feet touched the bottom. Supporting Marius, he staggered out of the water and up onto the beach.

  Jobe was already there. He pointed to their right. Firelight glowed from the end of the beach, beyond the dunes, moving fast. Ralph heard the jangle of harness.

  ‘We will not enjoy our freedom long if we stand about looking at each other.’ Marius was conscious again. Ralph stepped away, but the moment he let go the Dutchman staggered and sat down on the sand.

  ‘Is he hurt?’ Jobe asked.

  ‘He hit his head on a rock,’ said Ralph as Marius rubbed his face, bewildered.

  The firelight was coming over the dunes.

  ‘We must go at once!’ commanded Ralph.

  He took three steps towards the dunes – and stopped. In the soft sand, his footprints left a trail that even a child could follow.

  Was this what it had all been for? To be tracked like a hunted animal. He would not even make fifty paces before he was caught. And then they would hang him. He could hear the unmistakable drum of hooves as the horses approached the three of them. Soon they would be in rifle range – and then he would not even have the chance to run.

  He looked around his surroundings desperately. A little way along the beach, a stream flowed out from the dunes and debouched into the sea. At the sight of the stream, Ralph knew instantly what he must do next.

  He looked at Jobe. ‘Do you trust me?’

  Jobe’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘Why?’

  Ralph pointed down the beach. ‘I want you to run.’

  Jobe cocked his ear towards the horses. ‘I will not escape.’

  ‘No,’ Ralph agreed. ‘But while you distract them, Marius and I can make it to the dunes.’

  Jobe’s face was full of fury. Again, Ralph glimpsed the fierce pride in the man’s soul. ‘So, you escape and I go back to gaol?’

  ‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘Either we all go, or none of us goes.’

  Marius picked himself up and started to say something, but Ralph cut him off. He kept his gaze fixed on Jobe.

  ‘How do I know you will come back?’ Jobe asked.

  ‘That is why you have to trust me,’ said Ralph firmly.

  Lieutenant Alexander Preston, commander of the watch at the castle, heard the cannon fire from Signal Hill and assumed it must be a ship in distress. But the night was still, and when he looked out from the castle he couldn’t see a vessel that appeared to be in any sort of difficulty.

  Then a runner came sprinting down the hill from the battery with an astonishing report. A boat had been seen sailing from Robben Island; a prisoner – or prisoners – had escaped.

  ‘Are you certain it was not fishermen?’ Preston enquired. But then a second gun fired, this time from Robben Island, confirming the messenger’s report. The commandant must have been roused by the cannon fire and found some prisoners missing.

  Preston could not see the boat, but the runner from the lookout post assured him it was making for the beach at Blaauwberg. Preston gathered his troop of cavalry and rode out.

  Now he reined up on the promontory overlooking the beach. He gazed down intently, but saw nothing. The moon had gone behind a cloud. The pitch torches his men carried did not cast light more than twenty yards ahead. Beyond, and all around, the whole shoreline was in darkness.

  He drew his sabre. If the fugitives had managed to escape the island, they might have managed to arm themselves too, Preston thought. He led the troop down an embankment and out onto the sand, letting the horses pick their way with care.

  ‘Spread out,’ he ordered. ‘We will sweep this beach from end to end.’

  At that moment, the cloud passed from the moon. Preston could see no sign of a boat, but in the distance, about a quarter of a mile away, he saw a lone figure silhouetted against the silvered sand.

  He waved his sword. This would be as easy as coursing a hare, he thought.

  ‘After him!’ he commanded.

  The troop spurred into a gallop. The moon guided them along the beach, giving the riders a clear run and their quarry no place to hide. The distance closed swiftly. ‘It is too easy,’ Preston murmured. Almost a waste of his time – no chase, no sport. Maybe the man would offer a bit of fight, give Preston an excuse to exercise his sword-arm. He was close enough now to see that the fugitive was a black man. Preston was flabbergasted that the man had had enough wit and courage to get off the island.

  The man heard the horses pounding at his heels. It was evident he could not outrun them. He turned and dropped to his knees. Preston drew up in front of him and looked down on him as if he were a cowering dog, and Preston a god on high.

  ‘Did you really think you could escape your black arse from His Majesty’s justice?’ He trotted his horse in a circle around the prisoner. The man was still dripping wet. ‘How did you get here, you piece of filth?’

  The man looked up sullenly. He has an impertinent face, Preston thought, looking a white man in the eye as if they were equals. No wonder he had ended up on Robben Island.

  ‘Boat,’ said the prisoner as one of Preston’s dragoons dismounted and began to tie his hands.

  ‘I see no boat.’

  ‘Sank.’

  It was plausible.

  ‘Were there others with you?’ Preston asked.

  ‘Sir!’ called one of his dragoons before the prisoner could answer, pointing at the dunes that rose behind the beach.

  The trooper wheeled his horse away. A man stood on top of one of the hillocks, caught in the moonlight. Who was he? How had he got there?

  Either he was a conspirator who had come to help the prisoner make his escape, or he was a confederate. The sight of him standing there, gazing down at the cavalry, was an insult, a silent challenge to Preston.

  ‘You and you’ – he pointed to the two men nearest – ‘go and capture that ruffian now.’

  As soon as they moved, the man vanished into the dunes. The troopers could not pursue him on horseback: in the dark, and with the uneven footing, they would risk breaking the animals’ legs. They dismounted, leaving the horses untethered as there was no tree to tie them to, and followed the man into the dunes on foot.

  Preston and the other three men waited. The pitch torches burned low, spooking the horses with their smoke until the flames guttered out. They waited in the moonlight, expecting any moment to hear shouts of victory or – more conclusively – the sound of a carbine.

  Minutes passed. No sound came – just the sound of the waves breaking gently on the shore and the occasional nickering of the horses.

  Preston started to get impatient. What were his well-trained men doing? Surely they could not have lost their target in the dunes in this moonlight. The fugitive would have left deep footprints, and he had not been far enough ahead to outrun them. The possibility of a single prisoner – soaking, hungry and exhausted – overpowering two armed men did not enter his mind.

  He still had three armed men with him. ‘All of you, go and see what they are doing,’ Preston shouted impatiently. ‘I will guard this filthy black swine myself.’

  The troopers dismounted and followed the tracks that led into the dunes. Preston looked down at the captive. The man did not appear to intend any mischief – he knelt in the sand, hands bound, staring at the dunes – but there was a self-possession about him that offended the cavalry officer.

  A white flash lit up the dunes. It blinded Preston for a moment, even as his ears were deafened by the sound of a shot. A few minutes later, two men came walking out of the dunes, dragging what looked like a corpse between them.

  They let the body drop on the ground, mounted their horses and began to trot over to Preston.

  Preston squinted. They must be his men – who else could they be? He could see their white crossbelts glowing in the moonlight, and the gleaming steel of their carbines. Yet they both looked bigger than any of his men, particularly the man on the right. And the man on the left seemed to be having difficulty controlling his horse.

  At his feet, the prisoner started to move. Distracted, Preston glanced down, then jerked his head up again as he heard the drum of hooves. One of the troopers’ horses had suddenly gathered speed, charging straight at Preston. The man was almost on him, so close that as he lifted his head out of shadow Preston could see his face with clarity.

  It was not one of his troopers. It was a ragged-looking man, galloping towards him like a raging animal.

  When they left Jobe, Ralph and Marius splashed up the little stream that flowed out from the dunes. The water and the soft sand slowed them, but it also covered their tracks well. At first Ralph had to help Marius walk, but the hard-headed Dutchman soon recovered his strength and strode ahead.

  They crouched in the shadows among the dunes and watched as the dragoons reached Jobe.

  ‘Maybe we leave him here, hey?’ Marius suggested. ‘The British don’t know how many men they are looking for. They catch one, they think their work is done, they go home.’

  ‘I gave him my word.’ Ralph bent down and prised out three stones, each roughly the size of a nine-pound cannonball. He tossed one to Marius. ‘Now hide yourself in that hollow, and wait for my signal.’

  Marius hefted the rock. ‘What am I meant to do with this?’

  ‘Use your big, empty head and work it out. Now, be quiet.’

  Ralph scrambled up to the top of the dunes. For a moment the sky was dark, and he feared the dragoons would not see him; but then the clouds parted and the moon illuminated him like a stage light. One of the dragoons pointed to him; two of them spurred their horses towards him.

  Two was a good number. Ralph waited another second, then ran down the dune and threw himself prone in the sea grass. He waited, rubbing his fingers over the rocks he held, feeling every groove and whorl. He heard a horse’s whinny, the thuds of men dismounting, and then cautious footsteps.

  Wait. He had fought in enough skirmishes to know how a man’s mind could play tricks, how time could become scrambled. He had to judge the right moment to strike. If he showed himself too late, he would lose his chance to disarm the cavalrymen. If he showed himself too soon, he would get a bullet in his head.

  Ralph did not intend to die that night. He forced himself to lie still until he could hear the crunch of the dragoons’ boots on the sand, their ammunition pouches thudding against their thighs as they walked. Then he rose out of the dunes and, in a single motion, hurled a rock with all his strength at the nearest man. The dragoon was taken by complete surprise, no chance to defend himself. The rock struck the side of his head and he fell to the ground instantly.

  His companion turned towards Ralph, bringing up his carbine. As he did, Marius emerged out of the hollow where he had been hiding and snaked his arm around the man’s chest. With the other hand, he smashed his rock against the man’s temple. Ralph heard his skull crack.

  Ralph ran to the two dragoons. The man he had felled was dazed but not unconscious; he had already started to move again. Ralph pulled off his crossbelts and used them to bind his hands and feet before he could fight back.

  The man Marius had hit stayed motionless. Blood oozed from the side of his head.

  ‘You only needed to knock him out,’ Ralph said mildly.

  ‘If they sentence me to seven years breaking rocks, they should not be surprised my arms are strong.’ Marius glanced back towards the beach. The high dunes hid them well, and their attack had been so fast and quiet that the other troopers below had surely not heard it. ‘Are there more?’

  ‘Four more,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Too many,’ Marius fretted.

  ‘We’ll let them come to us and take our chances.’

  They stripped the dragoons of their carbines, then dragged them into the grass. Ralph kicked sand over the tracks to hide them. Then he and Marius returned to their cover.

  Soon Ralph heard more men approaching. Three of them, more cautious this time, with their carbines already raised.

  ‘Bill?’ the leading soldier called. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Something happened,’ said a second man.

  Ralph swore under his breath. The dragoon was pointing to scuff marks on the ground, where Ralph had not managed to hide his tracks well enough – the moon was too bright. The man peered into the surrounding dunes, ready to shoot.

  ‘Come out,’ he called. ‘I know you’re there.’

  Ralph pressed himself even lower to the ground. He could feel his heart racing, thudding against the sand. He lined up the carbine through the grass, though he was reluctant to use it. All three of the dragoons were now looking in his direction, and he only had one shot.

  He heard the click of a hammer being drawn back, and closed his eyes.

  The sand muted the sound of the shot, but the flash lit up the dunes like lightning. Ralph saw the glare through his closed eyelids. The moment it had passed, his eyes snapped open.

  Marius had shot one of the dragoons. The two survivors looked around wildly, swinging their guns left and right. The unexpected glare of the gunshot had temporarily blinded them. As Ralph sprang up out of the sea grass, he was just a blur of movement in the darkness to them. He slammed the butt of his carbine into the first man’s face, pivoted, and put the barrel against the base of the other man’s spine.

  ‘I do not want to kill you, but I will if I have to,’ Ralph cautioned him.

  The young dragoon dropped his carbine and sank to his knees. He could only be eighteen or nineteen, Ralph thought. He had joined the army for glory and adventure, not to die chasing convicts on a godforsaken African beach.

  Marius came up holding the hot, smoking carbine. ‘We make a good pair,’ he observed. Metal rasped on metal as he rammed another bullet home and primed the carbine. He put it to his shoulder and aimed it at the back of the kneeling dragoon’s head.

  ‘No!’ Ralph snatched it away before Marius could pull the trigger.

  ‘We killed two already.’ Marius gestured to the man he had clubbed, and the one he had shot. ‘They can only hang us once.’

  ‘We are not butchers,’ Ralph spat. ‘It is enough unnecessary slaughter.’

  Marius did not argue. They stripped, bound and gagged the two dragoons who were still alive, then donned their uniforms. The red coat was so tight across Marius’s shoulders he ripped the seams while pulling it on.

  They walked out of the dunes, dragging one of the dead men between them. They let him fall where the dragoon lieutenant could see, then mounted the horses and rode towards him. Ralph hoped the darkness was enough to disguise their distinctly un-cavalrylike horsemanship.

  The officer wheeled to meet them. Ralph spurred his horse faster. The officer must have sensed that something was wrong; he started to raise his sabre, but Ralph’s sudden charge had caught him by surprise and he was closing too fast. As Ralph cantered past, he swung the carbine’s butt hard into the officer’s ribs. The lieutenant was knocked out of his saddle. The sword flew from his hand onto the sand. Jobe ran forward and snatched it up. His wrists were bound, so he clasped it with both hands and advanced on the lieutenant where he lay prone on the sand.

  ‘No!’ Ralph shouted, leaping from his horse and stepping between Jobe and Preston. ‘If you kill the officer, the British will never forget it. They will chase us all the way across the Orange River if they have to. We spare his life, perhaps they will let us go.’

  Jobe lowered the sabre. Lying on the ground, Preston promised himself that if he survived, he would hunt these men to the ends of Africa if need be.