TimeStorm Page 2

  The convicts, in contrast, stood stock still. There was a palpable anger growing through them. Sensing this, the marines moved closer to their ranks, muskets at the ready. Redmond was not a popular figure among most of his fellow prisoners, but his plight made him a symbol of their pitiful position in the world.

  Twenty-eight strokes fell before Redmond uttered a sound. It seeped from his body in a low, rumbling groan, more the sound of a wounded beast than of a man. Accompanied by the drum beat and wet slapping leather, the noise formed an eerie incantation. Blaney found himself becoming entranced and had to struggle to remain detached. He turned his attention to his fellow officers across the deck, striving to shut out the spectacle below.

  William Cross appeared exhausted. Standing rigidly against the rail, his body was stooped and his face pallid. He was ill when the Marlin set out, but to refuse a command was unthinkable. It would mean languishing on half pay and descending the appointment waiting list. At his age that likely meant he would never go to sea again. Cross was in his fifties, with little by way of prize money to sustain him in later years. With a wife and two unmarried daughters to support he had no choice but to rise from his sick bed and command the ship. A fever contracted during the inactive months at the Cape further weakened him. In addition, Cross had found it necessary to tolerate the behaviour of Redmond. At least until now. Blaney looked back at Redmond and thanked God they would soon get rid of the stinking convicts and get back to their real work.

  Redmond fell silent after forty-two lashes, and slumped against the hatch cover. Their blows losing strength, bosun and mate sweated profusely under the bloody weight of their weapons. The convict’s back was a pulpy mess and blood splattered the deck with each blow. Blaney turned away again.

  Acting Second Lieutenant Henry Kite stood stiffly next to Cross. He was a tall, gangling man of twenty, his thin face shaded by an immaculately angled hat; like the rest of his uniform it was of the finest quality. The younger man had wealth and patronage, assets that would soon ensure his promotion from Fourth Lieutenant. His career was assured, unlike Blaney’s, whose only hope was to distinguish himself in action, an unlikely prospect here at the ends of the earth. Action was always a questionable possibility anyway for a fifth-rating frigate like the Marlin. Too lightly armed for formal fighting, the vessel was used for reconnaissance or communications. But once back in European waters they would be in the thick of battle with all the dangers and opportunities provided by a good war.

  But Blaney did not begrudge Kite his background. He was a first rate officer and had displayed magnificent courage at the Cape. The world lay before him.

  Blaney, however, did admit to some envy. Kite was well-educated, rich and popular, with an impeccable sense of dress. Blaney, always spotlessly attired, could not help feeling shabby and threadbare next to Kite. If only father had lived, he mused, things would be so different.

  Blaney smiled ruefully. He had excelled to reach his present position. Neither money or favours had aided his progress, and never would. Everything he’d accomplished was due to his own efforts, and, in truth, Kite would be the first to remind him of this fact.

  Blaney also had a soft spot for the other figure beside Cross. Tommy Travis, the Marlin’s thirteen-year-old midshipman, stood swaying, his usually ruddy face completely white as he watched his first serious flogging. Amused, Blaney remembered an incident earlier in the morning when a group of sailors made a wager as to whether Travis would faint or vomit during or after the punishment. The outcome was still in the balance.

  The sudden silence caused Blaney to turn back to the lower deck. Bosun and mate had finished and were gasping for breath, their chests and trousers soaked in blood. The mutilated convict hung by his wrists, unconscious. Or dead.

  “Punishment done, sir,” said the bosun, his chest heaving violently.

  Blaney nodded. “Very well, Mr Briggs. Take down the prisoner.”

  Briggs stepped aside to allow the approach of two marines. They unfastened Redmond’s bonds and were as shocked as the rest of the crowd to see the convict come suddenly back to life. He pushed the two men aside and staggered drunkenly before gaining a precarious balance. His face was completely white, glowing ghost-like through his red beard. He stared at Captain Cross with a mixture of agony and loathing. “You bastard, Cross!” he growled harshly, his West Country accent pronouncing the Captain’s name as ‘Craas’. “I’ll see thee dead ’fore I’m finished!”

  Horrified, Blaney turned to the Captain. Cross would have to act now; Redmond had just committed suicide.

  The Captain, however, decided to treat the matter lightly. “You should be grateful your carcass is not hanging from the yard-arm,” he replied. “I will not tolerate another word.”

  Redmond appeared confused, then, Blaney thought, disappointed, as though he expected something else. He did not have the strength to retort and collapsed to the deck. The marine Sergeant moved forward to help his men drag the convict below as a crewman began washing blood from the planks with water from leather buckets.

  Redmond deserved another flogging at the very least. The crew knew it, too. Blaney could feel their fury. What, in God’s name, was Redmond’s hold over the Captain?

  “Mr Blaney!” Cross called wearily.

  Blaney crossed the deck, noting that Tommy Travis was retching violently over the side. “Captain?”

  “Dismiss the men, Mr Blaney. I would see you in my cabin in ten minutes.”

  “Aye, sir.” He watched Cross slowly traverse the deck and go down the stairs. Blaney relayed the command to Henry Kite.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Kite hurried away, barking orders.

  Blaney studied his junior officer approvingly, glad the punishment was over. HMS Fortune, the Marlin’s smaller sister ship, was approaching from the south, so he arranged for a signal to be made, then lingered on deck for a few moments before going below. The Marlin swarmed with activity; sails were made ready by grunting men; bare feet pounded the deck; jibs creaked and shouts echoed between the masts. A deep breath of fresh, salted air cleansed Blaney of the flogging. The sea beckoned once again.

  CROSS

  In his tiny cabin Captain William Cross sank gratefully into the chair behind his desk. He closed his eyes to allow the throbbing pain in his head to subside. At least the sharp ache deep in his stomach was mercifully absent for once, though no doubt close to hand.

  Damn the man! he thought bitterly. Did Redmond really want to die? Was that his aim? Cross did not know, but he had promised himself that if the convict survived the punishment he would make sure Redmond reached New South Wales alive. He deserved that much at least.

  Cross opened his eyes and turned to a fresh page of his heavy, leather-bound log book. Writing quickly, he coldly described details of the flogging before drying the ink with a blotter. He made to close the book, but instead again found himself flicking back through the pages to that terrible day last June. Brief paragraphs did no justice to the disaster. The list of dead and injured, however, was enough to relate the magnitude of the event. He was drawn to these pages more and more, almost fixated by them. The voyage – his last, he was sure – must be cursed.

  Dogged by bad weather from the start, Cross remembered, the Marlin nevertheless handled the heavy seas with ease. Even the storm that caused her downfall posed no initial threat. Cape Town was less than three days away when the giant waves began to toss the ship. The storm was only an inconvenience and Cross was more concerned by the time they would lose. It was at four o’clock in the afternoon when he became convinced that time was the least of their worries.

  He was on deck with his Second Lieutenant, Charles Heathcote, both men clinging to the rail as the Marlin ploughed through mountainous seas. The other officers were below taking a much needed rest. Clouds closed in, turning day into night. An occasional flash of lightning illuminated their watery prison, presenting brief images of towering peaks and impossibly deep troughs. The crew went about their tasks pro
fessionally, each man lashed to a rail or mast close to his station. Bosun Briggs gripped the wheel and made frequent corrections to their course, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in concentration; when he was not screaming obscenities at the crew.

  Satisfied, Cross decided to return to the warmth of his cabin and weather the storm in relative comfort. But before he could move something odd happened. The Marlin suddenly shifted to starboard. The movement jarred the vessel, as if a giant hand had plucked the ship from the water and dropped her in another position. Cross knew the ship was in trouble. A shiver ran down his spine as a bolt of lightning revealed their peril. Instead of troughs and crests the seas were erupting in pointed peaks on three sides of the ship, while to port a colossal wave swept down on them.

  Instinct guided Cross’s actions and saved his life. With no time to issue orders – his men were alert to the danger – he hurled himself against the base of the rail and thrust his arms through the coils of a rope, praying to God in the darkness that it was tied to something solid. He was vaguely aware of Heathcote following his lead as the wave enveloped the Marlin. The crushing impact made his bones rattle. The world turned upside down and he was submerged in freezing, frothing water, his body reeling and rolling from the force. Nothing existed for him except the rope.

  In an instant the water was gone. Choking for breath, Cross was unable to see. Hands forced the rope away from him and he fought them as they picked him up. Everything was spinning and inside his head he could still hear the roar of the wave. He passed out.

  Cross woke in his own bunk. The ship was afloat, though she felt sluggish, and the storm was diminished. He had been unconscious for ten hours and Blaney was sitting beside the bunk with bad news.

  At the time when the Marlin shifted, Blaney told him, the other officers had been lounging in the mess. Realising their peril they dashed into the corridor and made for the stairs. Third and Fifth Lieutenants Trainer and Clayton emerged on deck as the wave struck and were swept to their deaths. Two midshipmen also died. Tom Yarrow perished in a fall down the stairs with Blaney, who suffered only bruising, and Jeremy Crane’s neck was broken, his body thrown about the mess room. Second Lieutenant Heathcote died a few feet from Cross, his head crushed beneath a falling spar.

  Twenty-nine crewmen and eleven convicts completed the death toll. Another thirty-four men and twenty convicts suffered injuries ranging from broken limbs to abrasions. Five more would die from their injuries.

  Briggs miraculously kept his wits about him and regained control over the ship after she almost keeled over. And Henry Kite saved four men from drowning by tying a rope about his waist and diving into the raging sea.

  Cross was not badly hurt, though the experience was another unwelcome blow to his frail health.

  The Marlin limped into Cape Town five days later. She had lost a mast and most of her rigging. Sails, though they’d been furled, were shredded and several holes at the port side water line required round-the-clock pumping. It took almost three months before she was again ready to sail, yet Cross knew she would never be the same. The Marlin was like a man whose broken leg had not been set straight.

  A knock at the door dragged Cross back to the present. “Enter.”

  Blaney ducked under the door arch and squeezed into the cabin, hitting his hand on the ceiling as he saluted. “Mr Kite will transfer to the Fortune, sir. He will explain the situation to Captain Forrest and fetch Dr Watkins.”

  Cross nodded. He had decided it would be best if Dr Garrett was transferred to the Fortune in exchange for the other vessel’s surgeon. The smaller, slower frigate carried female convicts and mercifully had been too late to meet the deadly wave at the Cape. As the ship was also under Cross’s command, her Captain, George Forrest, had to wait out the Marlin’s repairs. Not that he had complained. His hunting forays into the African hinterland kept both ships’ companies well fed. His adventures were in sharp contrast to my endless fevers, thought Cross enviously.

  “What do you think Captain Forrest will make of the transfer, Kit?” he asked, his dark mood beginning to lift in the company of the younger man.

  Cross gestured to a chair and Blaney crammed himself into the space, banging a knee sharply against the desk. “He will be ecstatic, I should imagine, sir,” he replied, grimacing. “I don’t believe anyone aboard the Fortune will regret losing Dr Watkins.”

  Cross smiled and studied his second-in-command. Blaney was twenty-eight, exactly the age of Luke Blaney, when he and Cross had first met years ago. The likeness was remarkable, in looks and in temperament. Both men calm in a crisis and explosive in action.

  The Lieutenant was tall and well muscled. Ruggedly handsome, he had strong features and thick, black hair. His heavy eyelids gave him a sleepy, inattentive expression clearly at odds with his alert nature.

  Aboard ship Blaney was the consummate officer. Intelligent, daring, decisive and respected by the men. But on land, particularly on social occasions, and especially in the company of young ladies, the contrast was astounding. Blaney was completely out of his depth.

  Cross had seen him flee from a ball when a young lady showed interest in him. Another time he reduced a girl to tears with his thoughtless arrogance. Cross had offered advice, and, with a little guile, his eldest daughter, but without success.

  Coughing politely, Blaney drew Cross from his reflections, a habit he’d fallen into more and more lately. “I am sorry, Kit. I am not myself at the moment. I want you to continue running the ship until my health improves.”

  “Of course, sir. I suggest you rest, at least until we reach New South Wales.”

  Cross noted irritably that the words were spoken a little too eagerly, but he let them pass. Blaney was right. His head was pounding like a drum and he could feel a slight fever in his cheeks. The Lieutenant looked at him strangely and Cross thought he knew why. “You believe I was too lenient with Redmond.”

  Blaney hesitated.

  “Come on, man, you can speak freely to me!”

  Clearly uncomfortable, Blaney shifted in his chair. Then his face hardened. “Well, yes, Captain. Men have hung for far less than his assault on poor Dr Garrett.”

  “Ah, Garrett,” sighed Cross, the unwelcome image of the surgeon popping into his head. “The doctor is probably the only thing on which Redmond and I agree. The man is an incompetent fool!”

  “But, sir, I still think you...”

  “He has treated me for months to no effect,” Cross continued bitterly, oblivious of Blaney. “He no longer cares. And he is drunk for most of the time. The damned man’s a disgrace to his profession!” Cross noticed Blaney’s surprise at his outburst and regained some composure. “You have your health, Kit. You have spent little time in his company.”

  “Be that as it may, sir,” Blaney insisted, “surely you do not condone...”

  “Of course not!” Cross interrupted. “However, Redmond has been punished for his crime. The matter is finished. I do not wish to have his death on my hands as well as...” Cross stopped himself. The guilt was a solid ball filling his stomach. Telling Blaney the truth would ease the pain, yet keeping it inside was the price he made himself pay. Besides, if the younger man had any respect left for his Captain, Cross was loath to lose it.

  “I grow weary, Mr Blaney.”

  Blaney stood awkwardly to avoid another injury, clearly disappointed.

  “Please send word when Mr Kite returns with Doctor Watkins.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He quickly left the cabin.

  Cross sat still for a moment. The ship was in excellent hands, but his shame weighed heavily upon him. He climbed into his bunk and waited for sleep he knew would not come. Closing his eyes, he saw the disembodied face of Rufus Redmond floating before him with his mocking eyes and savage snarl. Inside my head, Cross thought, I am also a convict.

  BLANEY

  The air was sweet out on deck. The Captain’s cabin was not Blaney’s favourite place on the Marlin, with its odour of illness and des
pair. Cross appeared to deteriorate daily, as though he had lost the will to go on. In moments of anger the old spark was still there, but those times were rare. Blaney knew Redmond was the key, but Cross always stopped himself before revealing his secret. It was so damned frustrating.

  The Marlin was in excellent shape, Blaney noted, regaining some good humour. She was positioned to greet the approaching vessel and the duty crew were at ease.

  Kite appeared at his side. “I will transfer to the Fortune when she heaves to, sir.”

  “Very good, Mr Kite. Carry on.”

  Kite went about his business as Blaney turned his eye to the Fortune, approaching rapidly half a league away. She was coming in to windward full of sail, her men tiny figures scrambling about the decks and rigging. She came directly at them, waiting until the last possible moment before rounding-to, her sails dropping as though cut. The crew had put on a fine show, eager to impress their counterparts on the Marlin.

  Indeed Blaney was impressed. Captain Forrest had trained his men well, although the Marlin’s crew did its best to find fault. The men sent a torrent of good-natured abuse across the water and received its measure in return. All of them were fine men, thought Blaney. A waste that they languished here at the bottom of the world.

  Had the voyage gone to plan, both Marlin and Fortune would be on the homeward leg by now. The convicts would be digging roads and cracking rocks as the two vessels joined Admiral Rainier’s fleet off Ceylon. There they were to pick up another human cargo, soldiers this time, and deliver them for service against the French. Now, however, God only knew where Rainier would be. The war was probably over and with it any chance of spoil or prize money. He shivered at the thought of the navy’s greatest enemy. Peace.

  Cheer up, he told himself, peace could not possibly last long in a world containing the French. He could do nothing about his present circumstances but make the best of them. Blaney took another deep breath and resolved to enjoy the day.

  Kite ordered a cutter to be lowered into the water and jumped down into the bobbing boat, his arms windmilling wildly as he found his balance. He remained standing as four oarsmen joined him and struck out for the Fortune.