The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (20 page)

“If she were able, Sir Richard,” Morris replied slowly, his words carefully chosen, “Then I am surprised that she is in quite so beat-up a state.”

A chill seemed to fall upon the room, and Banks was almost certain that the general hubbub of conversation also dwindled slightly. He stared at Major Morris; neither his name, nor face meant anything, and yet the man bore an animosity that was both obvious and uncommon at a first meeting.

“My ship was damaged while fighting a squadron of three enemy warships,” Banks said, just as deliberately.

“Then I suppose we should congratulate you for arriving at all,” the younger man replied, unabashed. “But it is indeed a shame that you did not take greater care of my uncle.”

“Dash it all, I had quite forgotten,” Robson blustered, trying to drag Banks away. “Young Morris here was indeed Sir Terrance's nephew...”

“I had nothing to do with your uncle's death,” Banks said, standing his ground.

“As will be shown in the enquiry I am sure, Sir Richard,” Robson added soothingly. “Morris, I think the Booker girl may need rescuing; go to her, will you?”

Banks stood stony faced while the young man nodded at the lieutenant governor, glared at him, and then turned slowly on his heel to where King and Booker's daughter were deep in conversation.

“Don't mind him, old man,” Robson said softly. “Bit of a firebrand, and hasn't got the manners he was born with. But a splendid officer none the less.”

“If he was regular army I would report him for insubordination,” Banks replied stiffly, as the sound of a gong echoed about the room.

“Well, I'm sure there is no need for that; I say, that sounds like dinner at last. And look, there is Lady Banks; come let us go through and eat.”

* * *

“W
on't be no provision nor need for chests where we's goin', so make sure your ditty bags is good and full, then when we leaves, it will be the easier.” Draude, who was now a fully-fledged boatswain's mate, moved amongst the crowded berth deck. The first watch was freshly set; those below had been expecting to sling their hammocks and were taken aback by the change of routine. Jameson collected his canvas bag and joined Flint at the back of the disorderly queue that would eventually lead them down to the orlop.

“I'd take a fair supply of woollens with you,” the older man told him. “I've known islands like this before. Don't care how near or far they is to the line, them's always got a chill in the breeze.”

“How long do you suppose we'll be ashore?” Jameson asked, as they reached the head of the wide companionway.

“Blessed if I know,” Flint shrugged. “But if they're gonna set the barky to rights, it'll be a while.”

“How shall they fix her?”

“Now you're askin'.” Flint rolled his eyes. The darkness of the orlop seemed to have been made even more apparent by many points of light provided by an unusual number of lanthorns. Both hatches were open, and work was underway in the holds. The two seamen glanced down as they shuffled past, and Jameson raised a hand to Mitchell, who was helping to manoeuvre a leaguer in his deep and private underworld.

“Might be able to rig a dry dock, though I can't see it m'self,” Flint mused, as they reached the seamen's storage area. “Less the India boys have been diggin' somewhere we don't know about. Otherwise they'll just have to beach her on her beam ends, which will mean all this lot will have to go, includin' the cannon.”

Jameson pulled a face; that much work was not going to be easy, and a position as topman would not excuse him in any way.

“Even beaching her won't be an easy manoeuvre; plenty have been laid down for careening what never get's up again,” Flint continued morosely. “An' the barky will be dead exposed if that Frenchman comes a lookin'. Ask me it will be better to head for the Cape and see what they're capable of. But I ain't the captain,” he added, as if in explanation.

The chests had been laid out in a ragged line by the holders. Flint and Jameson found the one they shared and opened it. Jameson's ditty bag only contained his sewing kit, and a spare pair of trousers. To them he added two shirts, all five of his stockings and, taking note of Flint's earlier advice, a gansey.

“When we going then, Mr Lewis?” Flint asked, as a crisply dressed warrant officer passed by.

The master's mate snorted; he and Flint went way back, and had even shared a mess when Lewis was a regular hand. “Blowed if I knows, Flint. But they're preparing to lighten ship on deck as well, so I'd say it'd be tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. Whatever, the cap'n ain't gonna waste no time, and while we're leaking like the proverbial sieve he's probably right.”

* * *

D
espite the young artillery officer's offensive behaviour, Banks decided he had enjoyed the meal. The food was every bit as good as he had come to expect, while the rest of the HEIC staff had demonstrated how experienced they were as hosts, and done all they could to put their guests at ease. There was, perhaps, a slight underlying tension separate from the open hostility of Major Morris, but then he supposed that was inevitable, and in reality he was being treated extremely well.

After all, the council had been expecting a new leader; someone to head their small, but efficient team. Rather than that, Banks had delivered a decidedly troublesome yet influential woman, as well as apparently leading a powerful French squadron to threaten their small enclave. Worse, there was also the not so minor liability of a Royal Navy warship in desperate need of both repair and victuals and effectively relying on their mercy. And until that particular problem could be addressed, her crew of more than two hundred must also be housed and fed. Yes, Banks decided, he was being treated extraordinarily well. He might just as easily have been shunned or politely told that, however honourable the East India Company claimed to be, they had been severely let down, and could accept no further responsibility for him, or his command.

“Did you meet Henry Booker's daughter?” Sarah asked, as she joined him in the small dressing room that was part of their quarters in Longwood House. “Quite a beauty, and has never been off the island, or so I collect.”

Banks undid his stock, and pulled it free. He had indeed noticed a young woman; she stood out as almost all the other ladies present had been well into their forties.

“She is his daughter?” he asked, absent-mindedly. “I had no idea.”

“Well what did you think, Richard?” Sarah pulled a face at him in the large mirror. “The girl is far too young to be his wife. Tom King was paying her particular attention, I noticed.”

“King is married,” Banks said firmly, and in a voice far more suited to the captain of a frigate than Sarah's husband.

“No man is married south of the equator,” she replied, before pointing at her husband and adding: “except for you, of course.”

“Still, I cannot believe King would be disloyal,” Banks said softly. “Why he even made arrangements to have his wife collected from Holland; such an operation must have cost a small fortune.”

“Maybe so, but then he is also a young man, and as prone to natural instincts as any of his type.”

Banks was quiet for a moment as he thought. He had a small enough team of officers as it was, and could not afford the loss of even one to foolish affairs or romance. “If you are serious, then I must see to it that they never meet again,” he said, finally.

“In that case you have not made a very good start,” Sarah told him.

He turned from unbuttoning his shirt to stare at her. “What do you mean?”

“They are setting off at first light, do you not remember?” she replied, wiping the rouge from her face and adding a small dash of cream from a china pot. “Henry Booker was organising it, just as we were leaving. Horses, servants, food – quite an expedition, from what I could gather.”

“He promised a guide to show Caulfield and King Sandy Bay,” Banks said, confused. It had actually been agreed at the morning's meeting: Booker was merely confirming the next day's itinerary at the end of the evening. Sandy Bay was the only area of the island that had a beach anything like suitable for careening a ship of
Scylla
's size. All of the governing body were of the opinion it would still not be appropriate, but Banks wanted his own officers to confirm the fact. “I must confess at the time I failed to see why they needed such a party,” he said. “And certainly not horses, not on an island this size.”

“Well if you had listened beyond the horses you might have heard mention of his daughter acting as guide.”

Banks shook his head; he had not heard. The day had been especially taxing which made it roughly the same as so many others that preceded it.

“I suppose I could send Fraiser instead,” he mused, reaching for the nightshirt that was conveniently laid out for him and had clearly been laundered since the previous night. “Or perhaps a master's mate?”

“Oh, I should not concern yourself,” Sarah said, leaving the small room, and heading next door for the oversized bed. “They cannot get into so much trouble in one day.”

“Besides, Caulfield will be with them,” he grunted, joining her.

“Yes, Michael will be there,” she agreed. “And even Tom King might find his youthful instincts dulled somewhat if he is sitting on a horse.”

––––––––

I
n fact the provision of horses turned out to be eminently sensible. The road to Sandy Bay wound up and down some of the steepest hills King had ever encountered, and the short, stocky animal he rode, actually more of a mule than a horse, hardly missed a step despite the loose ground and some genuinely memorable gradients. But by midday, when they had been travelling for over four hours, he was starting to tire; both his back and belly were far more used to keeping balance on a heaving deck, and ached from the erratic motion of the horse, while his rump felt as raw as ten-day-old mutton. Ahead, Caulfield and Julia were deep in conversation, something that should have caused him concern, but somehow King could not summon the energy to worry. He might be a widower and ostensibly free, but the first lieutenant was also considerably older, and a dry old stick at the best of times. He did not think Julia would be swayed by his charms, not when King had all but monopolised her company for most of that morning.

She had turned out to be just as captivating as he had sensed: a bright, witty mind, with just the right degree of humour. In turn King felt he had finally made a good impression, and such a thing was not easy when they were on her home ground and she was very much the guide. Their conversation only ended when Caulfield tumbled from his mount. It was not a bad fall; poor old Michael had more or less rolled off, landing sideways on the dense and forgiving turf. The action had amused everyone however, including the three servants who were following on foot, and even evoked open astonishment from his horse. Julia had gone to the first lieutenant’s aid, helped the older man back up, and stayed with him ever since. But by then the sun was up and King, who had been growing increasingly hot for a while, was not sorry. He knew that his conversation was starting to flag; to his mind it was far better that she should be bored by the balding, and slightly portly Caulfield for a while. Besides, there would be plenty of time for him to be with her later: he had already discovered she kept her own set of rooms in Booker's house, and more or less arranged to visit her there.

“We're just passing over Sandy Bay Ridge.” King looked up as Julia's voice broke into his thoughts. The couple had stopped a little way ahead, and she was turning on her saddle to shout to him. Bringing himself back to the real world was something of an effort, and King spurred his mount on in an attempt to appear more wide awake than he felt.

“It's not far now,” she continued, as he neared. On the left there is Diana's Peak; the highest point on the island. Just behind it is Mount Actaeon, and shortly we'll be passing Cuckold's Point.”

Cuckold's Point. It was not the best of omens for such an outing, but King nodded, and tried to look intelligent, even if the sun was extremely hot, and he so longed for a chance to get off the damned animal. Something of this must have conveyed itself to the girl, and she smiled when he finally reached her.

“Poor Tom; you look entirely washed out. What say we stop under those trees and rest up for a spell?”

King didn't appreciate the fact the she had noticed him wilting, but the small copse of what looked like mimosa appeared far too inviting to ignore, and he followed when she and Caulfield turned their horses off the path.

It was certainly cooler under the flowery canopy; King dismounted stiffly and stretched his legs that seemed determined to make him look as if he had been struck with rickets. Midshipman Jackson, who had been the back marker as suited his lowly status, followed, and also reined in his horse, before nonchalantly dismounting in such an expert manner that King was both annoyed and grudgingly impressed.

“Haven't been for a proper ride in years,” the lad told the lieutenant, the novel surroundings, and relative distance from all things nautical apparently giving him licence to speak casually. One of Julia's servants, a young black man with broad shoulders and a gentle countenance, came and collected both horses, leading them away to where the others were being watered. Another, an older woman with a white and broad smile, unloaded the wicker basket she had been carrying on her head for the entire journey, and began to sort through the contents with a girl who may well have been her daughter.

“There is nothing substantial for luncheon,” Julia said as she and Caulfield wandered across. “Cold pie, and some fruit. Father thinks there should be time sufficient for you to do your work, and be back for supper, but we have made good time and can still take a half hour's break now.”

She was wearing a long, grey dress, and sported a straw hat, not dissimilar to those worn by many of
Scylla
's regular hands in hot weather. The low brim emphasised her deep brown eyes and, as she sat down and arranged herself elegantly on the turf, King felt a sensation of desire that was very nearly painful. Caulfield planted himself next to her with an air of proprietorship, and King was quick to move in to the other side before Jackson could claim the spot. The younger female servant appeared with a large pewter jug, from which she poured something clear into beakers. Drinks were duly passed out, with the girl smiling not too subtly into the midshipman's eyes; an act that was promptly repaid by a reddening in Jackson's complexion.