The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (17 page)

The inner feeling of tension had all but gone, but Banks felt it return with the secretary's words. He had barely known Booker three hours, yet already felt he could be trusted. And if such a man was concerned, then there was probably every reason for him to be also.

“But St Helena is a delightful island, as I think you will find.” Booker's tone lightened and he continued as if starting a fresh conversation. “For centuries it has been known as a place of sanctuary: where difficulties are solved and the sick recover. Let us hope it can work some of its magic on the present problem.”

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K
ing woke feeling strangely exposed. His bed was wide, flat and very open; there was the whisper of a draught that blew from the nearby window: apart from that everywhere seemed quite solid and almost eerily still. He moved and the rich mattress rustled beneath him, which was another thing, other than that of his bed, and his own breathing, all was deadly quiet. At any time of the day, and even when safely at anchor,
Scylla
was alive with noise. It was something King had grown accustomed to: from the creaking in the frame to the constant whine of her rigging, the frigate was never at rest. And it varied: there were muffled conversations, shouted orders, the scream of seas birds, even sudden, unexplained, laughter, or far off mysterious hammering, but never silence. Over the years he had grown used to the sounds, even if his ears automatically blanked most out. But with their absence he felt mildly disconcerted; the world was changed every bit as much as if time had been removed, or colours transposed.

He eased himself unsteadily out of the bed and allowed his gaze to sweep around the large, but impersonal, room. On the chair next to him lay his uniform jacket: it was something tangible, of real life, and stupidly reassuring. The curtains had been drawn back since the previous evening, and there was now a pewter jug and basin that he did not remember on the oversized chest of drawers. The fact that someone had entered while he was asleep did not worry him greatly; until he was made lieutenant there were few nights when he slept without someone being awake near by. But neither did it reassure him. He rose and walked in nightshirt and bare feet to the window, where a further shock awaited.

It was daylight, and the view was so obviously of England, but it was not the England that he knew. There were no smelly, narrow streets or mean, port side houses, this was the England of his dreams and, he told himself erroneously, of his childhood. His room was on the first floor; below he could see a formal garden, well kept and bright with flowers, even if some seemed unfamiliar. Beyond was a small orchard filled with apple trees and further away, divided by neat hedgerows apparently made up of blackberry bushes, a series of fields like any found in Sussex or Surrey. A herd of cows gathered to one side of the nearest and, even more distant, what might be goats were dotted about. There were no trees to be seen on their approach to St Helena, nor from the anchorage, and little had been visible on his two coach rides. During the first he had been squashed between Williams, the purser, and one of the fresh intake of HEIC staff, while the second had taken place in total darkness. But now he saw many, and not just in the formal orchard. Great forests of the things; some standing guardian over the fields while others, filling the valley in clumps and clusters, seemed to flow, unbidden, up to the bases of the nearby hills. Oak, chestnut, weeping willow; some that looked distinctly foreign and might be bamboo, as well the more familiar apple, pear and other fruit bearers. On his few return trips to England King had noted that many of the native forests were being systematically cut back, presumably for timber. Consequently this was probably the largest collection of woodland he had encountered since a lad, and his seaman's eyes gazed in wonder.

From somewhere deep in the house a clock chimed; it was eight, time enough to get moving, but still he felt an odd lethargy that was difficult to shake. On the dressing table sat a package that had been handed to him on his arrival. Clearly a fast sailing vessel from England had beaten them to the island, and carried a small amount of post for the ship. His share had consisted of the package and, as the address had been written in Juliana's distinctive hand, he had all but torn the wrapper to pieces. But inside was only a statement from his bankers and a tailor's account for six pairs of woollen stockings and two new shirts. He picked up the paper yet again and examined it; there was definitely no message from his wife: not even the briefest of notes.

He and Juliana had wed more than two years ago, and he had supposed they were as happy as any married couple could expect to be, accepting that so little time was actually spent in the other's company. But the last brief leave, when
Scylla
's anchors hardly settled in the Spithead mud, had not gone well. His previous concerns were that she might not be taking to living in a foreign land, especially one actively at war with her own, while he also feared that a husband who was constantly absent, fighting that very conflict, would only make matters worse. But he could not have been more mistaken; Juliana had adapted admirably.

It was the small signals he had noticed first: nothing substantial. Several invitations to parties and subscription dances, and a message, delivered by one of the Southsea street urchins, that could only be given personally to Mrs King. Then there was that parcel of letters, tightly wrapped in ribbon, that he discovered when searching for scissors in her needlework basket. Initially he was too frightened to open them and then, on summoning the courage a few days later, found they had disappeared. Taken alone each were almost insignificant but their presence alerted him to other, equally subtle, signals that Juliana herself had sent out. A reluctance to visit certain eating houses they used to favour, her monthly curse arriving so neatly as to completely fill their brief time together and once, to her immediate horror, she had even called him by another man's name. All were of small moment, or so he had tried to convince himself, but as he considered them again and for the hundredth time, there was no doubt in his mind that they were growing apart.  But then even that was unfair, as they had never properly been together to begin with.

“Ahoy, Tom!” Manning's voice came from outside the room and King paused for just a moment before calling for his friend to enter.

The oversized door opened silently to reveal the surgeon, fully dressed and suitably smug. “Eight bells: better be rigged and ready,” King was told. Manning wore his dark, formal uniform well, giving the impression of both maturity and medical competence, even if his face still bore the boyish grin that King remembered from when he had been a mere loblolly boy. “Mr Booker's man said that breakfast would be served in half a glass, and I gather it a pity to be missed.”

King moved back from the window and poured out a basin of water. “You're uncommonly early, Bob,” he said, before sluicing his face with the cold water. “And horribly bright.”

“Ah, I am not used to sleeping alone and have been up since first light exploring, along with the purser,” Manning said, as he carelessly tossed King's jacket onto the bed and settled himself in its place. “This house is like a palace; friend Booker must be more of note than we surmised. I have seldom seen so large a mansion, and there seem to be servants wherever one looks.”

“Most will be slaves,” King replied in a matter of fact voice while feeling at his chin. He had shaved before going ashore the previous afternoon and decided it would not be necessary again until the promised meal that evening.

“Slaves or not, they seem a pretty cheerful bunch,” Manning said. Then, on apparently noticing the coat for the first time: “Did your dunnage not arrive from the ship?”

“Yes, but I have yet to unpack fully,” King replied, his voice muffled by a towel. “In truth it is hard to know how long we shall be ashore.”

They had arrived at Booker's house in darkness and, after the briefest of meals with their host, had taken an early night.

“I dare say more will be revealed at this morning's meeting.”

“You are not attending, I collect?” King pressed an arm through a shirt and pulled it over his shoulders.

“No, I have to find the hospital; it is in an area called Maldiva, apparently, though surely nothing can be so very hard to find in a place so small.”

“Feeling a mite unwell are we?”

“I have to wait upon the surgeon general,” Manning replied patiently. “There are the medical certificates to present and the sick bay is precious short both of laudanum and number five catgut. But we two are both invited to the dinner tonight, are we not?”

King paused in the process of pulling on his second best pair of stockings. “Indeed, tell me: what usually happens at these affairs?”

“Blessed if I knows,” the surgeon answered cheerfully. “Nearest I've ever been to an official dinner is to dine at Sir Richard's London house when he was wed, and I can't say I found that particularly rousing. I would chance it 'swords be worn' and 'wine with you, sir', oh and probably endless speeches. You have sufficient to wear, I trust?” he added in a softer tone. “If not I'm certain Michael Caulfield will respond to a signal.”

“Oh, I shall cope tolerably well,” King said, with more confidence than he felt. “The one thing in favour of a naval uniform is that it is never out of fashion.”

“I should question that they are with the latest ways on this little speck,” Manning mused. “We may be ten weeks from England, but it is ten years or more behind the times. Though that might be for the better if what I witnessed in London of late is any judge.”

“It would mean we are no longer at war.”

The heavy rumble of a gong sounded from somewhere distant, and King wrenched his britches up in sudden hurry.

“That will be breakfast,” Manning grunted. “And from what I saw being prepared, it would seem to be a feast. There was bacon and kidneys a cookin' and an especially enticing smell of mutton chops.”

“I have not eaten kidney in ages,” King reflected, forcing both feet simultaneously into his shoes.

“Ah, and there is more to look forward to than just scrag,” Manning continued. “Our host ain't the bachelor we suspected. He's married, or must have been at one time. Leastways there is a daughter, and I'd gauge you won't find a fairer wench within a thousand miles.”

* * *

B
anks was also anticipating a fine breakfast. He and Sarah sat opposite each other at the middle of a long, narrow table with Robson and his wife, a mature and rosy woman, at the head and foot respectively. Between them was sufficient food to feed a hungry twelve and the visitors, too long used to shipboard provisions and rationed portions, were overwhelmed.

“Sarah, dear: help yourself to some of that kedgeree, do,” Mrs Robson urged. “I always think it a good start to any meal, and especially suitable for one in your condition.”

Sarah blushed, and avoided her husband's eye as she busied herself with a spoon. They had agreed to say nothing of her pregnancy while ashore, but it was a secret Sarah had found impossible to keep from the lieutenant governor's wife. Mrs Robson had no aspirations or interests apart from her family, which were now all grown and gone, and had greeted the news with enthusiasm. Sarah also enjoyed the telling, as well as the numerous discussions and debates that followed. For far too long she had been burning to speak more freely and without the guilt that Kate's presence induced. Since discovering herself to be pregnant, there had been few that she could truly share her pleasure with.

“Try some of that ham, Sir Richard,” Robson urged. “There is a man in town who cures it to perfection.”

“You keep an extremely good table, Colonel,” Banks said, dutifully spearing a slice with his fork.

“Oh, this is not our usual fare, Captain,” Mrs Robson assured him, cheerfully ignoring her husband's warning look. “Much of the time it is bully beef and salted bacon, though we do well with fresh vegetables and have some truly splendid fruit.”

“But all this?” Sarah waved her hand at the offered food. “Surely it is not entirely for our benefit?”

“The Company pays an allowance for entertaining guests,” Robson said stiffly. “Even if precious few are received outside of the shipping season. And much of what we require can be obtained on the island. We rear beef, lamb, goats plus a few pigs, and most other provisions are found.”

“Except honey,” Mrs Robson interrupted, and again her husband's eyes flashed in her direction. “Wind keeps blowing the bees away,” she explained in a stage whisper to Sarah.

“But getting back to the meat,” Robson continued, “Jennifer is correct; much of what we ourselves eat, and all of the troops' provisions are preserved, and come from England.”

“How many are there on the island, Colonel?” Banks asked.

“In military terms, slightly in excess of a battalion,” Robson replied, after finishing a mouthful. “Then there is a core of artillery, a further five hundred civilians and fifteen hundred slaves.”

Banks was surprised; to feed so many must be expensive both in money and material. Presumably fully provisioned store ships made regular journeys just to maintain the population, and that would be in addition to any victualling requirements from merchant vessels travelling to or from the Far East.

“The Company supplies us with salt meat at well under prime cost,” the lieutenant governor continued. “It is basically sold at a loss, but far more can be made if we eke out our indigenous stock for what is a more profitable market.”

“There is a ready demand from the Indiamen,” Mrs Robson explained. “Fresh fruit and green stuff is always welcomed, but they seem especially keen for meat.”

“Three months sailing time from Bengal,” her husband agreed. “Many of the passengers are crying out for it when they reach us, and willing to pay the eleven ha'pence a pound we charge.”