The Low Road (19 page)

I opened my eyes when the come had turned cold on my stomach and was running down my sides on to the sandy ground beneath me. I sat up, wiped myself and admired the definition of my stomach muscles, thought how fine my softening pink cock looked against my white skin and golden pubic hair. I stretched my arms above my head, looked out to sea - and just caught sight of the stern of a small boat as it disappeared round the island's rocky northern point.

I leapt to my feet, shouting wildly, and crashed through the wood to the point. The boat was visible, perhaps only two hundred yards from me. I screamed, I ripped off my shirt and waved it above my head, I jumped up and down, but the boat ploughed inexorably on, and soon it was little more than a speck on the horizon.

The waves were boiling around the sharp grey rocks beneath me, and I felt like throwing myself to their mercy. There was my chance to escape, my chance to resume my journey and save Lebecque, and I had been too wrapped up in my own pleasure to take it. That was all I had ever thought of: my own pleasure! When
Alexander was sent away, all I had cared about was the fact that I had been deprived of a good fuck. I thought nothing of his safety, or the good of my country. I resented Lebecque because he stood between me and pleasure-I could not see him as I knew him now to be, a good and honest man. I had degraded myself and abandoned my quest at the hands of mercenaries and sailors, who had turned me into passion's willing slave. Oh yes, I called myself every name under the sun. I was truly ashamed.

For the rest of the morning I mooched about the island feeling very sorry for myself, plagued by the sheep who seemed to follow me always just out of sight. I heard them stamping around in the undergrowth, concealed by the trees; no sooner did I turn than they had disappeared.

By the afternoon I was feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The meal of raw rabbit that had sustained me so gloriously for breakfast had started to disagree with me, and my stomach was gripped by the most terrible pains. I wanted to be sick, but nothing would come. When I opened my bowels, however, I was practically knocked over by the force with which several pints of foul-smelling fluid shot out of me.

This was extraordinarily bad news. I had been sick like this once before, from a poisoned trout, and I knew how debilitating it could be. My head was light, and I felt unaccountably hot; I realised with terror that I was running a fever. Making my way back to the stream, my legs gave way beneath me, and I had to crawl to the water on hands and knees. When I reached it, I was shivering so violently that I could barely open my teeth far enough to get the water in. Somehow I made my way back to the wood and crawled into my pile of leaves, fully expecting never to wake.

I must have sweated the worst of the fever out while I slept; when I woke, I was soaking wet, and night had fallen. A full moon was above me in the sky; I felt disgustingly weak, with a raging thirst and a mouth like dust. I had to make my way back to the
stream-a short distance, but forbidding enough in my debilitated state. I staggered from tree to tree, astonished to find that the sheep were following me still. I had never known sheep to be stealthy before. As a child it had been my favourite game to surprise them in the fields and tip them over. These island sheep were a more intelligent breed, as they hid behind the trees and waited until my back was turned before advancing.

I cleared the wood and lurched across the heath, stumbling in rabbit holes, twisting my ankle, falling face-first into clumps of heather. The sheep - or whatever it was - pursued me still. I kept turning to catch it, but all I could see in the moonlight was a shape hunched upon the ground. Perhaps it was not a sheep after all, but a beast of some other kind. A wild cat, maybe. That was not a pleasing thought.

I tried to run, but the shadow stuck to me, always a few yards behind, crouching down each time I stopped, running when I ran. I was still half crazed from the fever, and imagined myself pursued by some fearful monster. I had forgotten my need for water, and ran aimlessly across the heath, along the beach, up the banks and through the woods. The beast stuck close behind me.

Finally I ran out of strength and collapsed on the ground by a small patch of scrubby bushes, past caring whether I was savaged by a lion or not. I could hear the beast's breath close to me. It sounded, to my astonishment, human.

Nothing happened. No claws or fangs tore into me. The breathing subsided, but stayed where it was. I lifted my head from the turf and tried to make out a shape in the moonlight, but suddenly it rose between me and the sky and bore down upon me. A hand covered my mouth, and I felt a knife at my throat.

‘Don't move, soldier,' a voice hissed in my ear. A huge domed head was silhouetted against the moon. I stopped struggling and lay still. A thick metal bracelet or armband was digging into my neck where he held me.

‘Where are the others?'

I tried to speak, but his hand gagged me.

‘Come on, soldier, don't play games with me!' He let go of my mouth and shoved the blade even closer to my windpipe; any further, and it would break the skin.

‘There is nobody!'

‘What?'

‘I'm alone.'

‘Don't lie!'

‘And I'm not a soldier... oof!' He dropped me on my back and raced up to the highest point of the island. Now I could see him clearly: he was a huge creature with a shaven head, manacles around his wrists and ankles. An escaped convict.

He returned to where I lay shaking on the ground.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘I was washed ashore.'

‘Where from?'

‘The
Florida
.'

‘Escaped prisoner?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hmm.' He put his knife away. ‘How long have you been here?'

‘A day. What about you?'

‘A week. Broke out of Fort William.'

I jumped in astonishment. ‘Fort William? But that's where my friend is!'

‘Your friend? What?' He roared. ‘You're a friend of the governor's? You dirty scum, I should kill you now, you traitor's brat.'

‘Not the governor, not the governor!' I squealed, hardly aware of what he was talking about.

‘Then who?'

‘Lebecque!' I screamed as the knife glinted in the moonlight.

‘Lebecque?' He seemed astonished. He dropped the knife on the ground. ‘The French priest.'

‘Yes! Do you know him? Is he alive?'

‘Of course I know him.'

‘And is he well?'

‘He was alive when I last saw him.'

‘But was he all right?'

‘What's your name, boy?'

‘Charles Gordon.'

He was silent for a while, then lifted me into a sitting position and stood aside so that the moon fell on my face.

‘Charlie.' He seemed rapt in contemplation of my face, tracing its contours with his thick, dirty fingers. ‘The very image.'

‘What?'

‘A face in a picture...' His voice tailed off. ‘But you're sick, boy. What's the matter with you?'

‘I was washed ashore. I ate a rabbit and it made me ill.'

He surveyed the disgusting state of my clothes; I'm ashamed to say that I had soiled them in the night, and they still clung to me. I must have stunk like a pig; fortunately for me, the fever had wiped out my sense of smell. He felt my brow, prodded my stomach and looked up my nose.

‘No bleeding at least. You'll survive. What in God's name possessed you to eat a rabbit raw?'

‘I was starving.'

‘You're lucky to be alive.' He picked me up and cradled me like a baby in his arms. We crossed the heath, clambered over the rocks and found the mouth to a clean, dry cave which had escaped my notice before. I drank from a battered tin cup, and felt instantly better. I wanted to ask him all about Lebecque and their adventures together, but he stopped my mouth with his finger, lay me down on an animal skin and I slept immediately.

When I woke in the morning, I was naked and clean with another fur thrown on top of me. My clothes were hung over a rock; they had been washed. I was alone in the cave, and I dropped
off to sleep again. When I came round this time, the man was squatting on his haunches beside me. He was gnawing on a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese.

‘Where did you get that from?' I asked. He laughed and tapped the side of his nose.

‘That would be telling.'

‘There are no houses on the island.'

‘That's what you know.'

‘But I've been all over it.'

‘Your eyes don't see, Charlie. But come on, get up. It's time to work.' He tossed me the heel of the loaf and I swallowed it greedily, then dressed and followed him out of the cave.

‘What's your name?'

‘Morgan.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘Fishing.'

‘Why were you in Fort William?'

‘Aren't you full of questions?'

I had no breath to ask any more; his strides were twice the length of mine, and I had to jog to keep up with him. I was still not up to my usual strength, and it took all my efforts to keep moving, let alone talking.

We reached the mouth of the burn that ran from the top of the island to the sea. A wide sandy bed was covered in perhaps four feet of fast flowing, clear fresh water. Rock and weed dotted the sand, and on each thick ribbon of weed I could see dozens and dozens of shellfish.

‘What month is it, Charlie?'

‘December, I think.'

‘Correct. Now, follow me.'

He rolled up his trousers to reveal massive, curving calves above the cruel iron fetters that dug into his ankles. I followed him until I was stomach-deep in water; it came up just below his
waist. He reached down, pulled on a piece of seaweed and came up with a handful of gleaming white shells, shook off the water and tossed them on to the sandy bank. I attempted to do likewise, and came up with a handful of slime and a few broken bits of twig, one of which had a tiny but very angry-looking crab clinging to it.

Morgan put his hands on his hips and laughed, then showed me once more how to do it: he grasped the base of the weed with one hand, ran the other swiftly up its length popping each clam from its sticky perch as he did so, catching them all and landing them with aplomb. I tried again; this time I had a handful of weed and, perhaps, half a dozen clams.

We carried on fishing in this way until we had a good pile of shellfish glistening and gaping on the sand. Morgan waded a little further out into the sea.

‘Come out here, Charlie, and I'll show you how to catch a bigger fish.' I followed him; the water was up around my chest. ‘You have to hold your hands open in front of you, like this' - he demonstrated above water — ‘and see what swims into them. Then you grab it' - he mimed a two-handed grip — ‘and pull.'

I did as I was told. We stood there like idiots, our hands freezing beneath the water.

‘Anything yet, Charlie?'

‘Nothing.'

He came a little closer.

‘Anything yet?'

‘Nothing. Can I get out?'

‘No, something's coming, I can tell. Be patient.' He edged a little nearer yet so we were standing hip to hip.

‘Careful now. Something's on the way. Watch it, Charlie, watch it!'

Just as he turned to face me, something very large indeed seemed to swim into my hands. I caught it and gripped and for a
moment wondered why I couldn't move it. Then I realised what sort of fish I had caught. I looked up to see Morgan, his arms crossed across his barrel chest, smiling down at me.

‘What have you got there, Charlie?'

‘I'm not sure. Feels like a big one.'

‘Let's see if we can land it, shall we?'

He stepped forwards, I stepped backwards, never loosening my grip on the great fish that wriggled and stiffened in my hands, and thus we made our way back on to the beach. As soon as we were on firm ground, I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth. His cock was salty and, after the chill of the water, amazingly hot. It hit the back of my throat and I gagged; fortunately, I was now so adept at taking even the hugest of pricks down the back of my throat that I relaxed, breathed deeply and swallowed. Soon my nose was buried in his wet hair.

‘Oh, God!' Morgan yelled above me; I suspect that nobody had ever been able to accommodate him in this manner before. Excited by the thought that I was the first to introduce him to this pleasure, I threw myself into my work and lavished upon that sturdy giant all the benefit of my education on board the Florida. Up and down the entire length of his cock I went; I swirled my tongue around the shaft and the head; I teased the sensitive little thread of skin that ran from his piss-hole down to the underside of his shaft. I sucked his balls, first separately, and then stuffing both of them into my greedy mouth, pulling on them as his cock soared above me. Shielding my teeth with my lips, I chewed up and down each side of his mighty length and finally, swallowing the whole thing and tugging on his balls, I took his load deep, deep inside me. His knees buckled and I thought we would both sprawl in the sand.

He righted himself, gasping, while I choked around his cock, unwilling to relinquish it from my throat. Gripping it with increased suction, I savoured every hard inch that filled me as I pulled my own cock out of my soaking trousers and, with a few
quick strokes, splattered my come on to the wet sand.

Finally we parted. Morgan gathered up the clams in his shirt and we returned to the cave in an amicable silence. He lit a fire, foraged for a few roots and fruits and left me to rest. We dined in the moonlight on clam soup - to this day the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.