TimeStorm Page 4

  “Captain Forrest sends his compliments, sir,” said Kite cheerfully. “He would be delighted to oblige your request and looks forward to the arrival of Dr Garrett.”

  I’ll wager he does! thought Blaney, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin.

  Silencing Watkins’ attempt to speak with a raised hand, Cross called out to nearby crewmen. “You men. Load Dr Garrett aboard and deliver him to the Fortune.” Watching them obey he added, almost as an afterthought, “with my compliments.”

  The cutter safely under way, Cross turned back to greet the new surgeon. “Welcome to the Marlin, Dr Watkins. I trust your trip across was not unpleasant?”

  “Unpleasant!” cried Watkins, beside himself with rage, rendering the entire ship silent. “Unpleasant? This situation is intolerable! I was engaged to treat the female convicts of the Fortune, not to put my life at risk among your cutthroats. Furthermore I...”

  Recovering from the shock, Cross found his voice. “I command here!” he roared, “and until the end of this voyage you will be surgeon to this vessel and subject to MY authority.” Allowing the words to sink in, he waited a few seconds to continue. “Insolence from you will be treated no differently than from the commonest seaman aboard. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  Marvellous, thought Blaney. The misguided surgeon gave Cross the opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of his crew, who were hanging on every word. Clearly used to having his own way, Watkins picked the wrong day to upset the Captain.

  Aware he was the centre of unwelcome attention, the surgeon muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” asked Cross, theatrically placing a hand to his ear. The crew laughed.

  “Yes, sir,” said Watkins, dragging out the words.

  “Very good.” Cross turned away as though the surgeon no longer existed. “Please show Dr Watkins to his quarters, Mr Blaney. I shall take the air before returning to my cabin.” The Captain walked away with almost a spring in his step.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Taking Watkins by the elbow, Blaney steered him to the stairs. It was a long time since he had seen Cross enjoy himself so much and the Lieutenant felt indebted to the surgeon. Perhaps the arrival of Watkins signified a change of luck.

  WATKINS

  Walking through the labyrinth of narrow corridors beneath decks held little interest for James Watkins; his ears were still burning from embarrassment. Damn Cross for making me look the idiot, he thought bitterly. Taking the Captain for a weak fool was a terrible mistake and the surgeon had paid for his folly.

  His eyes focussed on Blaney’s broad shoulders and he decided he did not like the Lieutenant either. Typical of this class of officer, handsome and arrogant with nothing between the ears. Watkins remembered him enjoying the confrontation on deck. He’d almost laughed at the surgeon’s discomfort.

  “Come along, Watkins. This way.” Blaney waited round a corner while Watkins, lost in his thoughts, had not noticed. Hurrying after the Lieutenant, he was eager to lock himself away in his cabin.

  It is so damned unfair! he thought. The Fortune was paradise compared with the horrors facing him on this ship. He’d carped and complained for the entire voyage, but in truth he had not endured much hardship. Seas were sometimes rough and a few crewmen and convicts suffered injuries, yet nothing serious occurred. Not like the Marlin and her encounter at the Cape. Watkins knew the crew of the Fortune considered the Marlin to be a jinxed ship. It was a thought on which he would prefer not to dwell.

  Worst of all was the loss of his nurse, Annie Hobbs. She was a convict chosen to assist him, a handsome, though uncouth, woman, who tended his needs and provided him with female comforts. Even when the mood took him, as it frequently did, to give her a sound thrashing, she would not complain. Annie was a most accommodating woman. The suddenness of his transfer meant he didn’t have time for even a farewell tumble! Damn Cross and damn the Marlin!

  Pushing open a door, Blaney stood aside. “This is your cabin.”

  Watkins stooped to look inside. It was quite acceptable. “It’s too small,” he said.

  “The Captain’s cabin is hardly bigger,” answered Blaney, becoming irritated. “The mess next door will double as your surgery. I trust you will join us for meals.”

  “Of course,” he replied, deciding a meal taken with Blaney and his fellows would be over his dead body. He was pleased, however, to be getting under the Lieutenant’s skin.

  As Watkins tested his cot, Blaney turned to leave, but he hesitated in the doorway. The surgeon ignored him for a long moment. “Well, what is it!” he snapped, recovering a little of his imperious manner.

  Blaney bristled at the tone. His face hardened. “I am going to abandon any pretence of civility, Watkins,” he began. “I have more respect for the convicts than I have for you. You were disliked aboard the Fortune – with evident good reason – but I’ll be damned if you’ll have the same opportunity to poison the Marlin.”

  Moving very close to Watkins, he continued. “You will obey every order without question or comment. You will attend very closely the Captain’s health. I believe he is more sick than he cares to admit. If you have a genuine complaint before we reach the colony, you will speak to me and no one else.”

  Watkins flinched as Blaney came even closer, their noses almost touching. “And if I see or hear anything like your performance when you came aboard, you will experience depths of pain and misery you cannot possibly imagine. Do I make myself clear?”

  Shocked and outraged by such uncivilised behaviour, Watkins did not know how to respond. An angry retort jumped to his throat, but he had enough good sense to stifle it. Blaney was a dangerous man. Watkins tried to speak, but the sound was little more than a squeak. At the second attempt he said, “Perfectly.”

  With a look of amusement on his face, Blaney backed away to the door. “I’m glad, doctor. With your help I am determined the rest of this voyage will pass without incident. I will send down your trunk presently. Good day to you.”

  Watkins watched him go, hating Blaney and the Marlin even more, but at least there were no witnesses to this second humiliating scene. Swallowing his pride, he decided to follow the one matter still pressing on his mind. “Mr Blaney!” he called, walking to the door. His legs shaking.

  “Yes?” asked Blaney, turning with some difficulty in the narrow corridor.

  “About Dr Garrett.” Perhaps he should not ask the question, thought Watkins, but he had to know. “What happened to him?”

  Only too happy to oblige, damn him, Blaney began the story and Watkins sat on his bunk. “Garrett was the victim of his own stupidity,” said the Lieutenant. He went on to explain how Garrett’s drinking had increased since they left the Cape. Even before that he had been reluctant to enter the convict hold, in fear of his safety. But lately this reluctance turned into an obsession. He was convinced the prisoners were plotting to kill him. Captain Cross, plagued by his surgeon’s incessant complaints, could find no evidence to support them.

  “At one point Garrett actually pleaded for a musket when the Captain lost patience and ordered him below,” said Blaney shaking his head, incredulous. Watkins was firmly on Garrett’s side by now.

  “Matters came to a head five days ago,” continued Blaney, “when two convicts became seriously ill with fever.” Deciding they were malingerers, Garrett refused to treat them. The convicts were in a panic, knowing the danger of contracting the disease and one of their number took particular exception. Rufus Redmond.

  “A vicious brute,” advised Blaney. “Even the other convicts hate him. His concern was merely a device to improve his standing with them.”

  When Garrett finally returned to the hold, forced below by marines deployed by Cross, both of the sick men were dead. Drunk and raving, the surgeon began to curse and kick the bodies.

  “Redmond became enraged,” said Blaney. “He grabbed Garrett by the scruff of the neck and hurled him at the hold door. Such was the force, his head went between two bars only
this wide.” Staring in horror at Blaney’s hands, which were ridiculously close together, Watkins imagined the terrible scene. “My God!” he whispered. “What happened to this Redmond creature?”

  “He was flogged this morning. Fifty lashes.”

  “Flogged!” exclaimed the surgeon. “You mean he is still alive?”

  Blaney nodded pleasantly. “Very much so.”

  A shadow passed behind Blaney’s eyes, leaving Watkins to wonder if the Lieutenant was as flippant as he made out. Cross must be mad, he reasoned. Redmond’s body should be feeding the sharks. Assaulting an officer was a hanging offence on every other ship in the navy, yet on the Marlin he would receive no such protection. He broke out into a cold sweat.

  “You need not worry,” said Blaney. “If the weather holds the trip will be over in ten days, possibly less. The cases of fever were isolated, so I doubt you will be called upon to visit our friends below.”

  Blaney walked away, leaving Watkins far from reassured. He lay on his cot, his hands trembling as he thought about the horrors waiting in the convict hold.

  BLANEY

  “The Captain is resting,” advised Kite when Blaney returned to the deck.

  “You surprise me, Mr Kite,” answered Blaney sarcastically. I’ve spent too much time with Watkins, he thought, regretting his words. Kite diplomatically chose not to notice. “Make sail when the boat returns.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Kite relayed the command, allowing the men to ready themselves for action. Most of the morning was spent at ease, so they were anxious to relieve the boredom. As the cutter returned from transporting Garrett to the Fortune it was swiftly hauled aboard and stored away while hands aloft unfurled the sails.

  The ship heaved beneath Blaney’s feet and surged forward. A shiver rolled sensuously through his body, leaving him tingling. There was nothing on earth quite like it.

  Pointing excitedly north of the Marlin, Kite exclaimed, “Captain Forrest has stolen the march on us!”

  “He’ll need more of a start than that,” laughed Blaney. The Marlin had the stuffing knocked out of her, yet she was more than a match for the smaller frigate.

  Side by side, both officers walked the length of the ship as the bosun put the men through their paces, cursing and praising, often in the same breath. Within minutes they overtook the Fortune and a great cheer went up. Blaney joined in, waving his hat, enjoying their heartiness and experiencing a warm sense of belonging.

  There was a fine line between fear and respect, reflected Blaney. A man could be broken into obedience, but not into loyalty. His first Captain gave him some sound advice. “Be fair, consistent and brutal,” he advised, “and occasionally fall on your arse and laugh with the men!”

  Falling on his arse did not suit Blaney. He received enough ridicule when he displayed his appalling dance skills. But allowing a little familiarity into his relationship with the crew now and again was more to his liking, telling a joke or taking their advice occasionally on a seafaring matter. It seemed to work well for him.

  Still, he had to maintain a clear distance from them, tempting as it was sometimes to throw in his lot after a jest. Yet he could still be with them in spirit. He glanced again at the Fortune. If only women were as easy to understand as men...

  “Do you think we are in for a storm?” asked Kite.

  Clouds billowed darkly ahead on the horizon, rolling across the water in the face of the southerly wind. Something about the formation sparked an ancient memory in Blaney, but for the moment it was elusive. Then he remembered. The West Indies in 1780. A midshipman in Admiral Rodney’s fleet, he saw two ships and three hundred men destroyed by a storm. His life was becoming a series of storms. “Aye,” he said, “a storm and a half I should say.”

  Kite frowned. “Again!”

  “These are stormy waters, Henry, you know that.” Blaney could see the concern on the younger man’s face. “We survived at the Cape and this one cannot be as bad.”

  “True enough,” agreed Kite, “but I would not wish us another encounter with such foul weather.”

  Understanding Kite’s trepidation, Blaney studied the skies ahead. The bank of cloud grew steadily, the sunlight on its upper edges heightening the menace of its gloomy core. His thinking was undoubtedly influenced by the Cape storm, yet there was clearly something sinister in their path. Moving strangely through the water, the Marlin felt out of control and Blaney imagined the vessel being pulled by an unseen force into the blackness. Don’t be a fool, he told himself.

  TOMMY

  Midshipman Thomas Travis eavesdropped on the exchange between Blaney and Kite from an alcove behind a tackle chest in a corner of the officer’s deck. It was a den where he could study his signal books, and sometimes daydream, undisturbed. But now he was disturbed and the books lay at his feet. If the two men he idolised were worried about the danger, then it must be considerable. But not a bad thing, he thought excitedly.

  This leg of the voyage was extremely tedious for a young boy. Travis missed his friend, Josh Yarrow, who died at the Cape, and his life had become very lonely. There were boys close to his own age among the crew, but his rank discouraged any familiarity. A midshipman was the lowest ranking officer and the younger crewmembers were not afraid to be hostile.

  Never mind, he thought, there would be other ships and experiences. This voyage would be a good grounding for his career, as his father had reminded him constantly before embarkation. Perhaps one day he would be like Mr Blaney.

  “Mr Travis!”

  The boy struggled out of his hiding place and jumped to attention beside Blaney, startling the Lieutenant with his unexpected proximity. “Sir?”

  “You surprise me yet again, Mr Travis,” said Blaney, grinning. “I am glad to see you are so alert. Inform Sergeant Driscoll I would like the deck cleared of convicts in half an hour.”

  Glancing to the lower deck, Travis saw a dozen convicts exercising. He was shocked to see Rufus Redmond among them, walking stiffly and in obvious pain. The memory of the flogging brought the taste of bile to his throat. He fought it down. An officer must never display a weak stomach. “Aye aye, sir.”“Watch yourself in the storm, Tommy,” said Blaney, gripping the boy’s shoulder for a few seconds.

  “I will, sir,” said Travis, basking in the concern of his hero.

  The crew were also preoccupied with the weather, Travis noticed, on his way to the Sergeant, each man having an expert opinion of what lay ahead. This was his perfect idea of seafaring; imminent danger and Travis, ever-alert, ready to save the day.

  REDMOND

  Chained to eleven other convicts, Rufus Redmond shuffled a small circle and felt his health improve with every step. The pain was bad, but he needed to keep moving to maintain some flexibility. The skin around his hairless ankles had hardened long ago, so there was no chafing to add to his woes. Being out on deck was a treat for Redmond, who loved the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. Like the sweating crewmen working around him, he was a sailor. At least he had been in a life gone forever. For fourteen years he worked the decks, renowned among his peers for his ability. It was a life he sorely missed. And all because of Cross.

  Merely thinking of the Captain brought back the agony of his flogging. He felt nauseated and dizzy, his new coarse, too-small shirt rubbed him mercilessly with each puff of wind, sending pins and needles through his limbs. Convicts, marines and crewmen all expressed amazement when he emerged for exercise, but Redmond could not afford to let his body stiffen. He knew they were near to their destination and he must be ready. He welcomed the approaching bad weather. It would slow their progress and give him time to recover properly. And time to plot. It was important that all the convicts join in the escape and cause as much confusion as possible. He did not care how many died in the attempt, a mass break out would give him the best chance in his bid for freedom.

  The wind strengthened, rippling the shirt across his back. His main problem, he realised, was that the convicts hated his guts. Ev
en the attack on Garrett, a genuine reaction to the man’s callous actions, brought him little sympathy. Oh, how he regretted the violence now that he needed all his strength. But the thought of escape would recharge his muscles, as well as the thought of revenge. Closing his eyes, he saw himself plunge a knife into Cross’s belly. One twist for himself, one for dear, sweet Mary and another for the child he would never see. Cross would die in screaming agony, knowing the measure of Redmond’s hatred.

  “Don’t like the look o’ them clouds!” said Mogley, his whining voice interrupting Redmond’s pleasant daydream. He was two places behind, Hand in between.

  “That bastard doesn’t like the look of anything,” piped Lockwood, who was directly in front of Redmond.

  The big convict agreed. “Well, nothin’ an’ nobody likes the look of ’im, an’ that’s God’s truth!”

  Lockwood stopped suddenly. “Watch out, Rufus,” he whispered, “here comes trouble.”

  Following Lockwood’s gaze, Redmond saw Sergeant Driscoll walking towards him. The marine had been occupied for a moment by young Travis, but now he approached with some purpose in mind.

  Driscoll was a tall man, only an inch or two shorter than Redmond; his huge barrel chest strained his immaculate red jacket. With his square jaw firmly set and hawk eyes that missed nothing, Driscoll ruled his men and the convicts with an iron, and often cruel, fist. His authority was rarely challenged, except occasionally when Redmond was unable to restrain an angry retort, and Driscoll hated him for it. He’d have the convict flogged every few days, given the choice. Today, however, Driscoll looked as happy as a pig in shit. He strode to the manacled men with a spring in his step and a wide grin replacing his usual scowl. All of Redmond’s senses became fully alert.

  “Well, well, well,” said Driscoll, as though greeting a long lost friend. He looked Redmond up and down. “A verit-able picture of ’ealth!”