The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (19 page)

“Shore boat pulling for us.” The forecastle lookout's call lacked urgency and was almost conversational although to some extent it did lift Caulfield out of his melancholy. He took a turn or two across the deck, then paused to watch the small cutter press its way through what was actually quite a heavy sea. The sternsheets appeared crowded: probably indicating officers aboard, even if all had abandoned their hats and were wearing watch coats or cloaks. Caulfield looked about with an element of guilt but all was in order and, with the exception of one of the fore topsail braces that was currently being replaced, he had nothing to explain or reproach himself for.

The boat drew near, and one aboard replied, “
Scylla
!” to the forecastle lookout's challenge. The captain was returning, and Caulfield also thought he could see King amongst the group at the stern, which meant that some sort of activity might be expected. They were heading for the frigate's larboard side, so no official compliments or reception was required, but Caulfield straightened his stock and smoothed down his uniform as he made his way to the entry port to meet them.

The captain came off first, and shook his premier’s hand almost as soon as he was on deck.

“All well here, I trust, Michael,” he said.

“Indeed, sir.” Caulfield's mouth opened to enquire of the shore before closing, with its job undone; there were some questions that a lieutenant could not ask of his captain, especially in full view of the watch on deck.

“You did not feel inclined to lower topmasts?” Banks asked, looking about him. “We are well protected by the shore, don't you know?”

“With the French in the area I reasoned we should remain ready to sail,” Caulfield replied.

“That was probably wise.” Banks eyed him carefully. “Though it must have made for an uncomfortable night in this swell.”

King was on deck now, along with an unknown civilian dressed in a dark brown watch coat. “This is Mr Brady, the Jamestown dockyard superintendent,” Banks explained, and Caulfield shook the new man's hard hand. “I'd be obliged if you would send for Mr Evans; we are to inspect the damage to our hull.”

Caulfield glanced at the duty midshipman, who sped off in search of the carpenter.

“In the meanwhile you had better prepare for going ashore, Mr Caulfield,” Banks told him. “And take enough for several days,” he added. “Mr King will enlighten you further, but there is an official dinner this evening, and afterwards you will be travelling across the island, so bring appropriate clothing.” The captain stopped, as if suddenly unsure of a point. “I assume you can ride a horse, Michael?”

* * *

T
immons watched them. From his vantage point on the forecastle he saw the captain lead
Scylla
's carpenter and some official from the shore down into the bowels of the ship, while King and the first lieutenant stood yarning on the half deck. The ship was in need of repair, as any fool could tell, and it needed even less intelligence to deduce that, whatever method they chose, she would have to be lightened. That might mean pumping her dry of fresh water, and even unloading some of their stores, but there was also a far more predictable side effect; the main bulk of the crew would be taken ashore.

He switched his gaze to the nearby settlement. It was small, certainly and, due to the high proportion of India Army men about, would probably be very much like Gibraltar. The prospect encouraged him greatly; Gib. was a fine town in his eyes, and one where his particular brand of mischief had prospered well, despite the vast numbers of military and naval personnel who thronged its narrow streets. He had never been to St Helena of course, but had high expectations of the place. It could be just the setting to deal with Hind and Mitchell, or there may be other prey equally suitable. Flint's talk of a lack of pushing houses did not trouble him greatly; doxies were obtainable wherever, if they were properly sought, although despatching that molly had quite woken his taste for the esoteric. He might even try for a military man – maybe a cadet; Timmons was a great admirer of the young. St Helena was also supposed to be well equipped with black folk, both slaves and free: surely one of either status was unlikely to be missed. And if all of that came to naught, there was still the possibility of an officer's wife, or one of the other civilian workers; he especially liked killing women.

The more he thought the faster the ideas came, and it was with a mixture of annoyance and fear that he noticed Jameson looking at him strangely from across the forecastle. He cleared his expression and turned away, but the prospect of further activity still left a warm feeling inside and he knew that never in his life before had he ever been quite so excited.

––––––––

“A
nd Mr King,” Booker said gruffly. “You will remember my daughter, Julia from breakfast this morning, I am certain.”

King bowed politely and extended his hand, inwardly cursing: of all the names possible, why did she have to be encumbered with one so close to his wife's?

“Did you enjoy your first day on St Helena, Mr King?” she asked, as her father turned away, his mission apparently accomplished.

“It is a pretty and pleasant place,” King replied, stumbling over the words. “Very much like England, in fact; I was surprised.”

They moved from the entrance where Booker was continuing to greet visitors and found a quiet spot in the room that was rapidly filling with guests.

“Surprised it is pleasant,” she asked seriously. “Or so much like England?”

King felt his face grow red. “Both,” he said, then realising his mistake, shook his head. “No, I meant, neither...”

And so ended any ideas he might have held for intimacy, he thought bitterly, while also noticing that her figure actually looked stunning in that white, sheer gown, and how delightfully her eyes danced when she laughed.

“Well, I hope you had an agreeable time.”

“Thank you, yes,” he replied, blushing further.

“And you will be seeing more tomorrow, I fin
d
,” she continued, brightening. “An overland trip to Sandy Bay, is that not right?”

“Indeed, we are to scout out the area in the hope of careening my ship.”

“I may show you a map, if it be of any benefit, and perhaps save a day's travel.”

King smiled. “We have examined a chart, but still wish to visit.” He had no reason to doubt the accuracy of an East India Cartographer, but careening a ship was a delicate process and much more investigation would be required, along with greater detail than a few random soundings.

“Well, it is our only true beach,” she told him, “I spent many happy hours there as a child.”

“Have you spent your whole life on St Helena?” he asked.

“Goodness, I hope not!” She was laughing again, but he had grown used to that, and actually was not sorry. At least it meant that he was pleasing her in some way, and she did have the whitest teeth he had ever encountered. “I was born in India, but we came to live here when I was but three, so can remember little of any other place.”

“And have you travelled elsewhere?” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care; to look a fool three times in the course of one conversation would probably be pushing the boundaries too far.

“No, I never have. You must remember how remote we are. Two months at least to England; one to Africa, though there is little there to see when you arrive, or so father tells me. On several occasions I have sailed with the fishing fleet and viewed the place from afar, but that is the furthest I can boast since arriving.”

King shook his head in astonishment. On land many civilians lived and died within a three mile radius, but most went further; to London, or the nearest city, at least once in their adult lives.

“I don't think I have ever met someone who has never been anywhere,” he replied tactlessly, before adding: “But it is no great defect,” in an attempt to make amends.

“Now there I must disagree with you.” He noticed with relief that she had taken his comment in the manner it had been intended. “A lack of travel is a very bad thing; and when you spoke earlier of my having spent all my life here, you were not far from the truth. Being close to the equator means the seasons are not clearly defined: we tend to live more in cycles, from one shipping season to the next. When you look back there is little difference in the years; one just seems to roll into another.”

“But that is terrible.” Again he felt the cold wind of a gaff. “I mean, the place is pleasant and...”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she interrupted, fixing him with those serious brown eyes. “And I concur. It is a big world, Mr King, as I am sure you of all people are aware. Spending an entire life on one single spot is a waste to anyone's thinking.”

“But why?” he asked and she shrugged.

“A lack of opportunity, I would gauge. I could have gone home to school – we think of England as home even though it be many miles away and may never have been visited – but I did not care to be away for what would be my entire childhood. Then my mother became ill and died when I was thirteen. Not too long after I began to take her place, accompanying my father, first to social and then official functions, until eventually I found myself running his household. It is quiet at the moment with the shipping season not yet begun, but in a month or so it will be a different matter. There are balls, and plays for the visiting fleets – sometimes we have fifty or more vessels at anchor at one time – and then I am extremely busy.”

“I can imagine,” King replied. “And do you enjoy it?”

“I enjoy the fresh faces.” She was smiling at him especially now, or so he thought. “And there is something good about always being the host and never the guest. But still I would like to go elsewhere for a spell, if only to properly judge the difference.”

“It seems such a contrary life to mine,” he said. “There are times, such as blockade duty or long spells at anchor, when we see the same horizon for weeks, even months at a time. But those are easily outweighed by others, when the ship may travel a hundred miles or more in one day.” He looked up from the floor where he realised he had been staring. “But you could go, surely? Your father would allow it?”

“Yes I could,” she agreed. “Though sometimes I feel as much enclosed as any slave in our household. Papa would definitely not forbid my leaving, but to where? And with whom? Oh, there was once a man who wanted to take me off St Helena but, as far as I could tell, it was only to install me in his London house, which would be little different.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “And then I discovered he had a country residence as well, and that was where he kept his wife, so the plan rather fell to pieces I am afraid.”

Even to his ears King's obedient laughter sounded false, but fortunately Julia Booker did not seem to notice.

“And so I shall stay,” she continued. “Papa will probably retire in the next ten years or so. He talks of moving away, but I cannot believe that will happen. For a start my mother is buried here; he would be leaving her behind, along with his memories. And there are worse places, Mr King.”

“You may call me Thomas, if you wish,” he said. Her sadness had struck him in an indescribable way; he felt the urge to reach out and touch; to hold her against him, to reassure her as if they had been friends for many years, and not just met that morning.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she replied. Her eyes were serious, and seemed to be searching into his. Or was that just his imagination?

* * *

“Y
ou have come a long way, Captain,” the vicar informed him sternly. “Doubtless you, and your men will want for spiritual comfort. My church is in Jamestown, you cannot miss the spire.
”

“I shall advise my officers accordingly, sir,” Banks replied.

“Should you consider a thanksgiving service to be in order, I am certain one may be arranged. There is a minister aboard your ship, I assume – would he be present this evening?”

“
Scylla
has no chaplain,” Banks stated firmly. “As a mere fifth rate, we are not obliged to carry one.”

“Not obliged, Captain,” the man's tone was now cold. “But a suitable man may still be appointed, may they not?”

“Indeed, sir, though we have never felt the necessity,” Banks continued, immersing himself further. “I conduct regular worship with the help of my sailing master, Adam Fraiser.”

“Adam Fraiser? The name is familiar.” The cleric appeared doubtful. “Though I own I cannot place it; has he religious training?”

“I do not believe so, sir.” Banks sensed that the conversation was not progressing well; soon he would have to admit that
Scylla
's regular divine service was very liable to postponement or cancellation. He looked desperately about the room; King was deep in conversation with a pretty young woman and Manning seemed to be engrossed with two surgeons that Banks had been introduced to earlier.  If only Fraiser had agreed to accompany them ashore he might have been able to palm this persistent little man off on him. Then a familiar face caught his attention and, catching his eye, Colonel Robson headed across the room, with a smartly dressed artillery officer in tow.

“Well, at the very least you must allow me to visit your ship,” the vicar was continuing; a look of acid disapproval now firmly fixed upon his face. “No doubt there will be much work to be done.”

“Reverend, you will not mind me interrupting,” Robson said, sparing Banks any need to reply. “Sir Richard, may I introduce Duncan Morris?”

Banks took in the figure of a young man, probably less than twenty-five years old. He was elegantly clad in what closer inspection revealed was obviously an expensively tailored uniform.

“Major Morris is in overall charge of the artillery on this island,” Robson continued, turning his back on the vicar, and effectively excluding him from the conversation.

“Including those that are currently protecting your ship,” the young officer simpered.

Banks inclined his head. “My ship is quite able to protect herself, thank you, Major,” he said, evenly. “Although I do appreciate the benefit of your shore batteries, of course.”