Heart of Oak (28 page)

There was an inn somewhere; Daniel Yovell had mentioned it while they had been chatting.
Sounding me out.
With Yovell, you could never be sure. Tolan had already discovered it, a tiny place used mainly by farm workers straight from the fields, but sometimes by the squires themselves. He felt welcome there, unlike his first visit, when he had met complete silence, blank stares, impenetrable dialect, or at best a version of the carter’s, “You’ll be a stranger in these parts?”

Like working at the Bolitho house: it had taken time. But he had finally been accepted, and most of them called him by name now. The barriers had come down. He even worked alongside Yovell in his little office, helping with the estate business and balancing the accounts, something he had learned all those years ago in the grocer’s shop while his father had been recovering from a bout of heavy drinking with his mates at Kingston market. He could even think of that now without pain or anger.

But he was always on guard against the casual remark or question that came without warning.
Where did you serve? What ship was that? Did you ever meet so-and-so?
And worst of all, like that day at the Roxby house, when Grimes the builder had said outright, “Don’t I know you?”

He saw the derelict barn and ran the last few yards, heard the hail clattering on the remaining slates. It would not last long.

He thought of the one called Flinders. A real bastard, full of his own authority and enjoyed making a show of it, even at the Bolitho house. Yovell kept his opinions to himself, but Tolan had inferred a good deal from what was left unspoken. Yovell had no time for him.

And the girl named Jenna smiled at Tolan now, whenever they chanced to meet. He kicked at some loose stones. It was madness even to think about her.

There was another vivid streak of lightning, but the trees screened most of it.

How much could Grimes really remember? The past was always there, lying in wait like a man-trap even as he attempted to build a new life. To escape. There
had
been some dockyard workers on board that day, trying to continue their repairs even as the mutiny was exploding around them.

He ducked instinctively as a deafening crash of thunder brought more slates down from the roof, and simultaneously a flash so bright that he was blinded for a moment. He seized something, part of the wall, mind reeling to other sounds, the wake of a broadside, the deck shuddering as spars plunged down through the smoke of battle.

It was over immediately, but he could still smell it, taste it, although the sun was already breaking through, and the rain had lessened. Utterly quiet, as if a great door had been slammed shut, or he was suddenly deaf. He stepped out into the open and across deep pools of rainwater, one of which reflected the sky, steel blue, like a mirror.

He stared down the narrow road, the long grass glittering now in the sun. Storm or no storm, somebody was on the move. A horse, trotting slowly at first and then picking up speed. But it was not a horse. It was a pony, riderless and moving fast. Tolan quickened his pace, his mind very clear. He had seen the pony at the house once or twice, harnessed to a little trap. A friend of Daniel Yovell’s had used it before…

The scream pierced his deafness, and Tolan was running with all his strength even before the sound died. The lightning had struck a tree. The pony had been dragging the remains of a harness. Some one was hurt. Only a woman could scream like that.

He reached a bend in the road, where he recalled seeing a stream nearby. He jerked to a halt, feet sliding in mud; the only sound now was his own gasping. Taking it all in: the tree split in halves and scorched, still smoking, the remains of the little vehicle crushed beneath it, one wheel lying on the other side of the road.

There were two men by the tree, one on his knees by the wrecked trap, the other holding up something small and gold that winked in the sun. Both men were staring in his direction, motionless, like unskilled players waiting for a cue.

But Tolan saw only the woman lying beside the wreck. A girl, hair caught in one of the branches, the fabric of her gown torn, revealing the pale skin beneath. He could remember seeing her for the first time, striding past the stables, head in the air.
I pity the poor devil who tries to make his way with she!

Only a matter of seconds, but it seemed forever before any one moved.

They were roughly dressed, unshaven, vagrants or on the run. He had heard some talk about convicts being used to clear the way for a stretch of the new road.

One said, “Get on with it—I’ll take care o’ this ’un!” He was crouching, a blade shining in his fist. The other had hidden the jewellery inside his coat. Tolan saw him bare his teeth as he tore at the girl’s clothing, heard him swear as she pushed him away. Her scream was cut short when he struck her again.

Tolan shut it from his mind, the girl, too terrified now to move, the figure bending across her, tearing at her like a wild animal. He watched the other man, feeling his intent, his confidence, seeing the knife, in shadow now, held against his hip. No stranger to violence and the fear it created. An unarmed man would turn and run.

He moved slightly, the weight on his right foot, saw the eyes move quickly, the blade catch the sun again. He twisted around and threw himself almost to his knees. A split second, and he would have failed. The blade would seal it.

He felt the other man blunder against and over his shoulder, the force of his lunge throwing him aside like a bundle of rags. Then Tolan felt a blow in his side, the breath gasping into his face, his eyes shutting out all else. He twisted his wrist, pulling him down; his own weight and the thrust of his arm would do the rest. It was like some terrible madness. The sergeant’s hard, cheerful voice at the barracks.
Thumb on the blade, my son, and stab upwards!

He felt him shudder, unable to scream or make any other sound. Choking on his own blood.

Tolan was on his feet, ready for the other one, but he had vanished. There were voices, horses…how could he not have heard the wheels? He staggered and almost lost his balance, but there was a hand on his arm, another taking the knife.

“You did us proud, matey!” He must have kicked the man on the ground. “We’ll see how brave
you
can be at the end of a rope!”

The girl was here too, holding the fabric across her shoulder. Some one called, “You all right, Miss Elizabeth?”

She nodded, pushing some hair from her face, staring at Tolan with clear, grey-blue eyes. She said in a steady voice, “
He
saved my life.”

Only then, she began to sob.

Yovell reached out to assist her, but dropped his hands as she exclaimed, “I am
not
a child!”

And Allday still stood near the sprawled body, holding the knife, and watching the others. It had all happened so fast. He had been with Yovell when the alarm had been raised and troopers had been seen searching in the fields for some escaped prisoners; he had heard their dogs baying like wolves. He said, “They’ll soon catch the other bastard,” and looked down at the contorted face and empty eyes. “This one’s cheated Jack Ketch.” He tossed the knife down and took another deep breath. No pain. Nothing. He saw the little pony trotting around the bend in the road, led by one of the stable boys. Everybody was here, it seemed.

Yovell called, “I’ll see you back at the house, John. You had something to tell me?”

Allday put his hand on Tolan’s shoulder, and knew the girl was watching from the carriage window. “It can wait! Take care of
her!
”

Francis, the Roxby coachman, touched his hat and flicked the reins. Allday wanted to force it from his mind.
It might have been Unis. It might have been my Katie.

He looked at Tolan; there were bloodstains on the cuff of the smart coat. “My wife’ll soon deal with that.” He gripped his shoulder and felt him tense. “You an’ me need a nice wet!” He grinned. “An’ that’s no error!”

They walked to the road together. Once Tolan looked back, but somebody had covered the corpse with an old horse blanket. A close-run thing, which might have ended with his death. But, like the storm, it was over. He felt the heavy hand on his shoulder: part of the Bolitho legend. He had found a friend.

L
IEUTENANT
J
AMES
S
QUIRE MOVED
restlessly across the quarterdeck until he stood on the weather side, feeling the wind: light but steady. He had taken over the afternoon watch less than an hour ago, but it seemed like forever. His shoes were snagging on the softened deck seams, and he was thankful for the mizzen topsail’s great shadow. He had brushed against one of the squat carronades in passing: so hot you could cook a meal on it. As if it had just been fired.

A week and a day since they had weighed at Gibraltar, back and forth along this same godforsaken coastline, always with a misty blur as their horizon. And for what? He was accustomed to the monotony of those long voyages of exploration and discovery, days, weeks at a time, logging the same course, often without sighting land or another ship of any kind. But there had been a purpose to that, and usually a result.

He gazed along
Onward
’s full length. A few hands crouching, some even lying in patches of shade, if they could find any. Men off watch, still digesting their meal and measures of rum. He could feel their mood like something physical. Boredom and resentment, and more names in the punishment book as a result. A Royal Marine had been posted by the fresh-water cask: another sure sign. Men on watch needed an occasional drink, tasteless or rancid though it might be, but it would all vanish within a few hours in this heat if left unguarded.

There was another frigate patrolling this same area, but they never met. Their only link was maintained by the smart little brig
Merlin.
They would sight her again tomorrow, then
Onward
would come about and begin all over again.

He walked aft and saw the helmsman straighten his back as he approached.

“East by north, sir.” He hardly glanced up at the taut canvas. “Full an’ by, sir.”

Close to the wind and moving well, the yards braced hard round to catch every puff of wind. But if that fell…

Two midshipmen were sharing the watch, Napier and young Walker, who had not been seasick again, or so he had been told. Squire still thought about the ill-fated schooner. Death at close quarters.
It might have been us.
He remembered the piece of charred timber, and the captain’s face when he had given it to him. The same man he had seen fling his arms around
Merlin
’s new commander when he had come aboard for a few minutes, before he, too, sailed to this barren coastline.

He glanced at the tilting compass card but his mind did not register it, nor the helmsman’s resentful scowl.

Merlin
would be a fine command. Her commander was far younger than most, and the son of an admiral. Nothing would stop his ascent up the ladder of promotion, whereas…Squire walked back again and stood by the quarterdeck rail. He was lucky, and grateful to be where he was; he had told himself often enough. Now, this might well be the end of the ladder.
For me.

A seaman hurried past, giving Squire a quick grin before he vanished down the poop ladder. Most of them seemed to like him, and the younger ones were not afraid to ask his advice when they needed it.
Unlike some.

He had never served as a midshipman, and he could still remember some of the comments when he had been promoted directly from the lower deck. “That’s what they did for ‘Bounty’ Bligh, and it didn’t do
him
much good.” And worse.

Meredith, a master’s mate, cleared his throat. “Captain’s comin’ up, s—” and stopped with one hand on the rail, the sentence unfinished. Then Squire heard it, too. Far away, impartial.

“Gunfire, sir!”

He saw the captain look up at the masthead pendant, and move to the compass box, and heard him say with a dry little mocking note of disapproval, “And on a Sunday, too!”

It was not something Squire would ever forget.

Then he said, “To the south-east of us. If this wind holds…” He gestured. “Fetch the first lieutenant!”

Squire saw one of the midshipmen hurry toward the companion and heard the captain call, “
Walk
, Mr Napier!” and the boy looked around. “I want you to stay in one piece.” He might even have smiled briefly. Then he strode to the quarterdeck rail. “That lookout, Tucker—bring him aft,
now!
”

Squire saw a messenger running along the gangway. Like most of the others on deck, he was wide awake now. He cupped his hands behind his ears, shutting out the regular sounds of canvas and rigging, but the sea was silent. Maybe a ship was testing her guns. Nothing heavy; might even be the brig
Merlin.
Trying to break the monotony of this endless patrol.

“’Ere ’e is, sir!”

Tucker had appeared at the top of the ladder, jaw still working on the remains of his meal, his eyes, very clear in a deeply tanned face, fixed on the captain.

The master’s mate murmured, “What d’ you reckon, sir?”

I would have waited, to be sure.
But Squire said only, “The captain thinks there’s trouble ahead.”

The upper deck seemed suddenly crowded with people. The watch below, off-duty marines, even the cook and his mates. All staring out to sea, then aft toward the quarterdeck.

Meredith, the master’s mate, grinned. “So much for Sunday!”

Adam pointed across the starboard bow. “I shall alter course directly, Tucker. It will put some more power in the sails—give us an edge.” He felt him start with surprise as he reached out and touched his arm. “I know what you can do. Take a glass, mine if it suits. But if there’s nothing…” He shrugged. “Take your time.”

Tucker nodded, brushing some dry biscuit crumbs from his cheek without even knowing he was doing it. Every one seemed to be here: old Julyan the master, even the first lieutenant. He saw Napier with some other midshipmen, and the boy smiled and raised a hand in greeting.