The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (27 page)

A ripple of flame ran down the Frenchman's hull, but the timing was erratic, and some splashes appeared extremely wild.
Scylla
may well have been hit, and there might be more damage for them to repair than before, but she would survive to see the work carried out. And Banks was relatively certain that particular Frenchman would give the anchorage a wider berth in future.

* * *

B
y two o'clock much of the excitement had subsided. The Frenchman was long gone and
Scylla
, only marginally injured by the intruder, had licked her fresh wounds sufficiently until daybreak. The HEIC gunners were also stood down, while their officers enjoyed a late supper. Banks and Robson had retired to Longwood while King lay in his own room and bed, but disappointedly alone, at Booker's house. Only Lieutenant Cherry was up and active, as were his junior officers and men.

As he had predicted, the temptation of a town had proved too much for some of
Scylla
's crew; most had been spotted, and taken back smartly enough, but two still remained at large. Consequently all the marines were currently patrolling the darkened streets, stamping along the narrow lanes in a way that both expended their frustration and actually lengthened their night's work. But Cherry was not unduly worried; no one could go far on an island and most casual deserters were taken back within a few hours. Either they found remorse with daybreak, or unintentionally gave themselves up in stupor. The whole thing was a small time annoyance, nothing more, and would probably end with a black mark on a charge sheet followed by some minor punishment for the miscreants when they were, inevitably, caught. It wasn't as if anyone was likely to get hurt.

––––––––

“H
e really is a most thoughtful and kind man,” Kate told them earnestly, as their small cart wound along the unmade track. “Despite his Christian beliefs.”

Julia resisted the instinct to laugh out loud as she could see the captain's wife was taking Kate's comments in all seriousness. Neither of the women were particularly well known to her, and she had yet to fully experience Mrs Manning's direct way with words. As the newcomer, she could not know that Sarah was simply pleased to have her friend back in something approaching her previous humour.

“Frankly, I would have never expected a bachelor to be so wise,” the surgeon's wife continued.

This time Julia’s smile did break through. “Why, they can't all be so very foolish, surely?” she asked.

“Perhaps not,” Kate conceded. “But Mr Fraiser has a wisdom you would not expect of a normal sailing master.”

“Richard values his skills most highly.” Sarah said, still relieved beyond measure to be having a proper conversation with the woman once more. Since they had left England, Kate had been her closest friend. Despite their differences in station – the wife of a captain who is also a peer of the realm would usually be on a very different social level to a former midwife – they had got on famously. Kate was probably the more serious of the two; after having lost her mother at an early age the rest of her life had been lived in the predominantly male world of merchant ships and, latterly, men of war. This had imbued her with a mildly sardonic streak that could very easily turn sour, but on the whole she was good company. Sarah, on the other hand, was the daughter of an Irish magistrate. During the recent troubles she had fled to England, although not before much of her family's home and possessions had been destroyed. Both women had found comfort in their marriages, and it was especially upsetting for Sarah when news of her own pregnancy seemed to act as a chock between their continued friendship. But now that had changed and Mr Fraiser, of all people, appeared to have been the catalyst although, as the sun shone down and the small open carriage moved slowly along the rutted path, Sarah couldn't have cared less for the reason. It was a glorious day, with the prospect of many more to come; she would shortly be starting a family, and St Helena really was the most wonderful of islands.

“The Clarkeson's house is still a good way off, you are not tiring?” Julia asked. She had remained quiet for most of Kate's monologue, sensing its importance to the two women, and knowing there was much that she would never understand, even if the name, Adam Fraiser, was one that she knew well, and had special reason to interest her.

“Oh, I should never tire of this,” Sarah said positively, glancing about at the scenery. “Indeed it was a splendid idea of yours.”

“It felt right to show you a little more of St Helena,” Julia told them, clearly pleased. “And with the men so busy with their boat, I felt this to be the perfect trip. The road is wider and far better than that which leads to Sandy Bay and the Swanley and Thompson Valleys are so pretty – much is just like England, or so I am told. And if we get the chance there are some lovely islands, just off the coast.”

“But we are expected for lunch, are we not?” Sarah asked; she had her own reasons for wishing to find a house before long, and the bumpy cart ride was hardly helping.

“Oh yes, I sent word last night. The Clarkeson's are wonderful people, and will be overjoyed at seeing English folk and hearing of home.”

“What part are they from?” Kate enquired.

“Oh, neither have visited, at least not to my knowledge,” she assured them.

Then they were quiet for a while, each content in their own thoughts. Julia wondered vaguely about asking more about the officer who had proved so helpful, but Kate had apparently said all she wished to on the subject and for several minutes the only sound was the steady trot of the horse, interrupted by an occasional murmur of encouragement from David, its heavily set driver. The scenery was everything Julia had promised; wherever they looked lush vegetation seemed to drip as if painted with an eternal brush, giving an unusually healthy cast to the air, and contrasting beautifully with the occasional fissures of savage blue volcanic rock. The road they travelled was mainly set along a ridge that afforded breathtaking views of the deep dark ocean, but still there were areas when it would wind suddenly downhill, plunging them into the gloom and chill of a damp forest that might never before have been penetrated. And it was just after one of those occasions, when a slight incline slowed the horse to an even more ponderous walk, and a merciful sun was just threatening to break through that Julia asked a question that had been very much on her mind for the past week.

“Tell me,” she said, finally breaking the silence and still wondering if the wives of both the British frigate's captain and surgeon were really the right people to address. “What do you know of Thomas King?”

* * *

T
immons had been living on his wits and very little else for the past two days, and the hen he had just eaten, warm and raw, did much to revive him. He brushed the blood and feathers from his hands, then returned to the small stream that had been his guide for most of the morning to wash properly. He was, so he reckoned, a good five miles from Jamestown. It was a fair distance, and far enough to risk stealing the poultry. For the first day he had avoided even the heavily laden fruit trees and blackberry bushes, so concerned was he that his escape would be complete and permanent.

Killing Mitchell had been the easy part. The old fool agreed far too readily to a diversion, just before they were due to be marched back to the barracks. And getting away had been almost as simple – wait for the next time the battery released a broadside, then slip off quietly. Once over the drawbridge they were on the main street and then into the tangle of side roads and lanes. No one had seen them go, not even their messmates, it was perfect.

Both agreed they should get as far away as possible from the dock, but for Timmons the lure of what the natives called punch houses was dubious. They found one eventually of course, and Mitchell laid into his beer as if the daily half pint of strong spirit he was accustomed to was never issued. Timmons kept pace as much as he could, but remained totally sober throughout. There was far too much on his mind to succumb to alcohol; something a lot more potent drove his brain.

And then afterwards, in the street, when both of them were apparently disorientated, leading the big man into a dark enough alley was both simple and satisfying. It was late by then, and Timmons knew there would be bootnecks out searching for them. Consequently he could not afford any noise and, when Mitchell had shown signs of wanting to sing, the time had effectively been chosen for him. A swift crack on the side of the skull with his cosh, and the holder had dropped to the ground like any of the sacks he so regularly manhandled. And then a further blow, this time with a heavy stone which might have been placed there specifically for the purpose. Timmons actually felt Mitchell's skull crack and it was as if the broken bone itself released the feelings of relief and satisfaction he had been craving.

He could not enjoy the moment for long, though. Alone, and now far more mobile, he skipped through the darkened streets as if they had been familiar to him all his life. His intention had been to allow himself to be detected nearer the barracks, deny all knowledge of having been with the old mule, and take his punishment for slipping off just like any jolly Jack Tar caught out on a cruise. That was the first of his setbacks: there had been more to follow.

Immediately after despatching Mitchell he almost ran straight into Corporal Jarvis and a file of marines marching towards him. There had been no alternative, he was forced to double back, pass Mitchell's body, and continue on down the alley. He knew he was in danger of becoming truly disorientated and had stopped and looked up as soon as he could. The town sat between two huge hills that towered above: he could just make out their ghostly peaks in the moonlight. Both would be impossible to climb without being spotted, but he knew that if he kept them to either side he must head for either the dock or the country. Then a shout told him that the dead holder had been found, and he immediately began to sprint for what he hoped would be the former.

It was his second piece of ill luck. As soon as he noticed the ground begin to rise Timmons knew he was heading further inland. By that time a hue and cry had been raised, and twice he needed to dodge patrols of HEIC soldiers. Knowing that the Company's men were after him as well added an extra edge, and he continued to run for most of the night, only stopping when the sun sprang up with its customary haste.

By then he was in thick countryside, but there were still houses about, and suddenly people. In fact they seemed to be everywhere; riding horses, herding cattle, driving sheep, or simply walking aimlessly about to annoy him. He spent most of that day in a copse hardly large enough for the name, and only moved when darkness descended once more.

A day had passed since then and things were finally beginning to look up. Food had been found and he knew from cautious experience that more should be relatively easily to come by. He was still on the run, and this was not an ideal situation, but certainly one that bettered the dull monotony of the barrack huts. It was strange, he had more space, and sleeping in a bed was certainly a novelty, but his wooden shed felt far more claustrophobic than any crowded berth deck. Even the lack of movement seemed disconcerting.

And so he had resigned himself to making the best of things. Timmons knew he would be caught eventually; nothing could change that and, equally fixed, was his excuse. He had not been with Mitchell, not set eyes on the man since the wharf; no one had seen him on the street, and his present adventure could be easily portrayed as nothing more than a game attempt to desert. It would be up to them to prove otherwise, and not an easy task.

A sound caught his attention and he instantly froze. There had been no trace of human activity for some while, and yet here was conversation; several voices could be heard above the clatter of a light carriage. He moved away from the stream and took cover behind a nearby blackberry bush. Some sort of vehicle was certainly approaching, and the figures in it were women. His heart suddenly beat faster: this was turning out far better than he could have hoped. Admittedly there was one male present: a young and well-set Negro driver, but he would only be a servant. Besides that almost added spice: women were usually his victim of choice, but he had never killed a black man before, and the concept appealed to him greatly.

* * *

“A
wife?” Julia asked in disbelief.

Kate and Sarah seemed no less surprised although in their case it was not by King's marital status, but rather the girl's apparent ignorance of it.

“She is Dutch,” Sarah said, as if in explanation.

“And very pretty,” Kate added, to no noticeable benefit.

“He failed to mention a wife,” Julia told them sadly, and in a slightly softer tone.

“Perhaps it just didn't come up?” Kate asked brightly, and then changed her expression as she caught a particularly harsh look from the captain's wife.

“You can hardly know him.” Sarah reached out to the young girl who seemed to be close to a state of shock. The carriage was still clumping along the rough path, but suddenly its passengers had no eyes for the beautiful countryside.

“No – no, you are quite right,” Julia agreed, composing herself, and even adding a cheery smile for good measure. “I hardly know him at all.”

* * *

W
ork on the lower larboard hull was complete and the paint, though still tender, felt dry enough for what they had in mind. Banks strode to the taffrail and looked down to where the dockyard superintendent was perched on the side of the barge. “Very good, Mr Brady, you may begin to open the seacocks.”

The man gave a wave in response, and his team turned the three long handles attached to brass valves set deep in the bottom of the barge. A series of fountains spurted up, but soon the flow ebbed, and then seemed to stop completely as the incoming water smothered it. But
Scylla
was certainly on the move, and her deck's unnatural cant immediately began to correct.