TimeStorm Page 5

  Lockwood twisted round to give Redmond a warning glance. The ship was silent. All activity stopped and the big convict knew every pair of eyes on deck was focussed on the confrontation.

  Driscoll thrust his face close to the convict. “’ow’s the old back, then?”

  I’m trapped, thought Redmond, but I’ll be buggered if I’ll tell him it hurts like Hell. “It’s good,” he muttered.

  Stepping over the chains, the Sergeant entered the circle of convicts, an evil smile distorting his lips. “I’m right glad to ’ear it, Redmond,” he said, slapping the convict heavily between the shoulder blades.

  Redmond’s head erupted, his heartbeat deafened him and it felt as though his eyes were being expelled from their sockets. Staggering heavily into Lockwood, he was unaware of his companion struggling to keep him on his feet. For a few brief seconds Redmond rose above the pain, floating in some strange place between life and death where everything was still. Then he was dragged back, screaming inside, but all the time telling himself, you cannot cry out!

  Fires within his body slowly extinguished themselves and he could breathe again. His eyes began to focus and he could hear the flutter of sails, and then the rush of spray beneath the bowsprit.

  “What’s the matter, man? I thought you said your back was good.” Driscoll’s mocking voice returned Redmond to full awareness.

  Anger coursing through his body, Redmond pushed himself away from Lockwood and stood erect, his eyes blazing into Driscoll’s. This time, hanging was a certainty. Not even Cross could prevent it. Feeling oddly calm, he could not care less. At the very least, he would have the pleasure of snapping Driscoll’s neck before he swung. The marine Sergeant advanced and Redmond was ready.

  Observing the change in the convict’s demeanour made Driscoll hesitate. Redmond clenched his fists, causing his knuckles to crack like broken bones. When Driscoll flinched at the sound, Redmond saw the fear in his eyes and knew he’d won. Forcing, with considerable effort, a smile, he reinforced the Sergeant’s humiliation.

  Driscoll returned to his guards, red faced and angry. He would attempt revenge in private, but he was no longer an immediate threat and Redmond dismissed him from his thoughts.

  “Get them below!” bellowed the Sergeant, cuffing one of his soldiers across the head when he did not move instantly.

  Marines escorted the dozen prisoners below, though none were prepared to molest Redmond. Pausing at the hatchway, he tried to catch Driscoll’s eye, but instead saw the Sergeant turn away and abuse another of his men. He had done Redmond a favour. The convict felt better than he had for hours. Death held no fear for him. He took a last look at the sky before going below and a heavy raindrop slapped against his nose and forced a winding channel through his whiskers. Sensing the trepidation of the crew, he looked to the north. You poor bastards, he thought.

  BLANEY

  Bemused by the confrontation between Redmond and Driscoll, Blaney pondered on what he had learned. It was no surprise to find that the Sergeant was a coward. Bullies usually were. To provoke Redmond was stupid, but to back down was almost criminal. Had the man no sense?

  The key to Redmond was altogether more complex. Showing incredible courage, he had won a victory without raising a finger. There was a depth to the convict that Blaney could not fathom. If he saw the incident in isolation he could admire a man like that. He shook his head, knowing what Redmond was really like. The sooner we off-load him, the better, he decided.

  But thoughts of unloading were premature; there was still a storm to weather. The seas were steadily mounting and they were now in the shadow of a colossal cloud bank. Heavy and purple, it gathered the two frigates into its bosom and played with them, like a cat with a mouse.

  “What do you think, Mister Briggs?” Blaney asked the bosun.

  Marcus Briggs lifted an exceptionally long arm and scratched his bald head. A sailor with twenty-five years of experience, he reminded Blaney of a hairless gorilla. “Dunno, sir,” he said, sniffing the air, “but there’s a bad stench about it, ’less I’s mistook.”

  “Aye.” Blaney knew exactly what Briggs meant. Enough storms crossed his path for him to know the change in atmosphere. For him it was not the smell, but the feeling of oppression, as though all the world’s air was compressed about the ship. It was an exhilarating feeling tinged with fear. But fear was of no use to him now; he needed to think clearly.

  Cross came up beside him. “Thought I’d join you for the display, Kit.” He looked like death.

  “It’s a bad one, sir,” protested Blaney. “I suggest you remain below.”

  “Nonsense,” said Cross. “I appreciate your concern, but my place is here.”

  Exchanging glances with Kite, Blaney realised further argument was pointless. Once the Captain made up his mind, nothing short of mutiny would change it. Instead, he reviewed progress on the main deck, where preparation was almost complete. Hatches were battened down, all loose fittings were stowed away and men hung precariously in the rigging as they secured the sails. Every man kept a weather eye to the north.

  Mist fell like a blanket from the heavens onto the choppy sea, neatly enclosing both vessels. The Fortune, less than half a mile away, became a ghostly mirage, its form distorted by the curtain of moisture. There was a stiff breeze and a few heavy raindrops splashed against the deck, yet the tempest remained at bay, teasing them.

  Then the wind dropped, so suddenly that Blaney thought he had gone deaf. Soon reassured by the steady thump of waves slapping the hull, he also heard the sound of Cross’s fingers drumming nervously on the rail.

  Kite jumped in surprise as lightning speared through the mist. Incredibly, there was no thunder, though every ear aboard strained in expectation. Tension gripped the men of the Marlin.

  “Damned strange,” muttered Cross, “not even a breath of wind!”

  Not here, anyway, thought Blaney, but something had to be stirring up those waves. Crests rose higher as the troughs deepened. He knew by instinct that they were very close to the mystery of this storm. Looking up, he saw the mist had swallowed the tips of the masts and of the Fortune there was no longer a sign. The Marlin was alone.

  The weather again changed in an instant, catching the crew by surprise. The seas erupted and a gale force wind hit them amidships, whipping spray across the decks like grapeshot from a cannon.

  “Brace yourselves!” screamed Cross, but everyone had already anticipated the command and moved to save their lives. After the Cape, they would not be caught by surprise ever again. Pitching alarmingly, the Marlin ploughed through stinging rain into the unknown. Blaney realised there was no point turning the ship into the wind because the seas ran in all directions. She was a wily old vessel and would find her own course. Besides, Briggs was at the wheel and the ship was like an extension of his body.

  Early afternoon turned to gloom as the clouds pressed in, though Blaney thought he could see a change ahead. Kite yelled at him and pointed the same way, though it was impossible to hear his words over the din. It was definitely brighter ahead and hope surged in Blaney. The Marlin made one last sickening belly-flop, her planks pleading for mercy, then it was over. The seas remained rough, but the wind and rain and the mist receded like curtains.

  Crewmen looked about in awe. The ship was in a gigantic cloud cathedral half a mile in diameter. Cloud walls billowed lightly about them, stretching thousands of feet into the air where the roof was made of mist. Blaney saw men cross themselves rapidly. The sight about them was ominous, yet beautiful. A sight to remember. If they survived.

  Seaman Uriah Perkins, who had clambered up the bowsprit for a better view, suddenly turned back to his shipmates, sheer terror on his face. It took him three attempts to find his voice before he screamed the word guaranteed to fill every man aboard with dread.

  “Whirlpool!”

  REDMOND

  As the storm battered the Marlin, the crew hung on for their lives, lashing themselves to rails and masts. Those who were
safe screamed instructions to their comrades. Below them, Rufus Redmond pictured the scene on deck and listened to their familiar cries. The convict hold in which he lay resembled a giant shaking pot. Wooden bunks came loose from their fittings and were pounded against walls and shattered. Screaming men were tossed through the air and came to rest groaning among the splinters or trapped against bulkheads.

  It was ironic, mused Redmond, as he lay face down on his bunk, his huge arms linked tightly beneath the bed. The good conditions aboard the Marlin hardly worked in the convicts’ favour. On other transports the prisoners would have been held in much smaller cages, restricting excessive movement. Whereas in this open hold there was nothing to stop a man from being hurled the length of the compartment.

  Looking around in disgust, Redmond wondered how such poor quality men could be of any use to his escape attempt. Some convicts had followed his lead and gripped their bunks, but most had panicked. Their limbs flailed helplessly as each wave cast them in a different direction. One man cartwheeled out of control towards Redmond, but he was deflected when the big convict swung his elbow into the man’s jaw. Redmond almost lost his grip and roundly cursed the unconscious man as he fought to hang on.

  Silas Hand, he noticed with approval, was managing quite well on his bunk. Lockwood looked quite ill, but was secure. At least he was not vomiting like the loathsome Mogley or retching like Owen Williams. Redmond wished they would fall out of their cots and plague another corner of the hold.

  The stench was unbearable, far worse than normal, which Redmond had hardly thought possible. One of the easing chairs, in constant demand during the heavy seas before the storm, had broken open when a man fell onto it. Its vile contents covered the man responsible and slid across the decking. The sight was enough to turn the strongest stomach; even the two marine guards behind the barred door had fled.

  Redmond closed his eyes and pressed his face into his lice-ridden blanket, turning his mind to more pleasant thoughts. As always, Mary’s face appeared. Her features were no longer distinct, though the shape of her face was clear. So were her long, fluttering eyelashes and the hint of a coy smile. He could not remember the colour of her eyes, damn it! How long would it be before he forgot her completely?

  For most of his life, Redmond had been alone. Whores satisfied his body and the mysteries of seamanship satisfied his mind. He was resigned to his loneliness. He lived hard and would probably die hard. And that was how it should be for a big, ugly, bad-tempered brute. Redmond’s mother didn’t want him, so what chance was there that any other woman would find a place for him in her heart?

  Then came Mary. She had seen something in him no one else had. A softness, she said it was, a heart of gold. Aye, thought Redmond, she was right. Mary drew goodness out of him, she was his redemption. But now all the goodness was gone, banished forever to another time and place.

  His child would be a year old now, if it lived. Had Mary survived childbirth? How would she live? She had no family and relied on Redmond. Is she now a beggar? Or worse?

  Redmond had used many whores in his life, but the thought of Mary being forced into such a life filled him with impotent rage. The sides of his bunk splintered and cracked as his hands squeezed together, his fingernails drawing blood. His bellow of fury and hate merged with the cacophony of misery and the howls of stretching timber. Praying that Cross would be spared by the storm, Redmond renewed his vow of vengeance. The Captain would pay for the man and woman and child whose lives he had destroyed.

  BLANEY

  In company with everyone who stared at the whirlpool, Lieutenant Christopher Blaney knew he was looking into his own grave. It was an oddly reassuring thought. Any chance of survival had long since passed, so his mind was freed from calculating the odds of escape. No one could survive such a vortex.

  Nearly all the hundred or so men on deck appeared to have similar thoughts. Half a dozen were kneeling in prayer, but there was an air of powerless acceptance as each man contemplated his fate.

  Drawn slowly through the water, the Marlin gracefully approached the mouth of the whirlpool. Blaney studied the phenomenon with detached curiosity. Whirlpools, he had once been told, usually appeared in groups, though it was hard to imagine more of this size being nearby. Perhaps gigantic marvels such as this were more common, but no witness had survived one to tell the tale. The thought amused him.

  It was near now, yawning invitingly to starboard. Water swirled smoothly around its mouth, which was four ship-lengths across, before dipping to race around the ridged walls into the depths of the ocean. The giant hole was filled with wisps of spray, perhaps the ghosts of former victims. They whipped and weaved within the hole, never quite able to escape, and the howling of lost souls, real or imagined, filled his ears. Icy fingers of fear began to slide the length of his spine.

  Teetering on the lip, the Marlin made several circuits around the edge of the whirlpool. For brief seconds it appeared she may be ejected, but the tantalising hope was false. The ship began to list alarmingly to starboard as she slipped over the edge onto the wall of the funnel. Blaney thought the Marlin would be flipped over and crushed, but instead gravity and increased speed kept her intact.

  Standing became impossible as the angle of the deck became more acute. Blaney, Cross and Kite sat down and threaded their arms through the rail supports. Travis slid down the deck to join them and the crew hung on as best they could. The time for orders had passed, though in truth nothing could be heard over the infernal din anyway. Each man was alone with his fate.

  Swirling water, trapped in the whirlpool, screamed and bubbled like the death rattle of a strangled man. It filled Blaney’s ears and pressed against his brain, causing him to release his grip on the rail and clamp his hands to the sides of his head. He slid, oblivious, into the centre of the deck.

  The ship’s momentum increased and pinned him down with such force breathing became difficult. Blaney felt as if he were in a trance. His senses were overwhelmed and everything moved in slow motion. Looking aloft, although the Marlin was almost on its side, he saw the masts were shrouded in mist, a sure sign they were deep inside the vortex. The lip of the whirlpool was still visible over the port rail, the outside world impossibly far away beyond a wall of spinning water. His head began to throb and his vision blurred.

  So this was death. Not very pleasant, but, Blaney had to admit, there were worse ways to depart this life. He realised with sadness he would never see his mother and sister again. He had seen little of them since joining the navy as a boy, yet he loved them dearly. His father’s death had affected his mother’s mind, leaving her often silent and withdrawn, but his spinster sister would take care of her, which gave Blaney some comfort. He had no other ties to the land and, aside from feeling sorry about rejecting the advances of a Cape Town whore on his last night in port, he had nothing else to regret. The sea was his life, so it was only fitting that it should also be his death.

  The Marlin shuddered as the main mast ploughed into the opposite wall of the narrowing whirlpool. A loud, splintering tear ripped half the pole away, causing the vessel to jump as though she had lost a limb. Soaked by spray, his head reeling, Blaney took a last look over the port rail. Through the fading light he saw a dark shape, indistinct through the mist. Its movement and that of the Marlin made him dizzy, so he shook his head and tried to concentrate. Of course! It must be the Fortune! Blaney felt sad there would be no one to record the fate of both ships, yet at the same time he was comforted by the companionship.

  Suddenly – impossibly - the deck was bathed in bright light. Blaney was stunned, not knowing which way was up or down. He faced the opening of the whirlpool, yet the sky or cloud beyond was dull through the spray. He turned, hesitantly, to starboard, his head reeling at the unbelievable sight. Where the whirlpool should have come to a grinding, devastating point there was a patch of blue, flooded with light. Blaney’s mouth dropped open. He could have sworn it was the sky. But it was not possible. This must be the i
nstant of death, he reasoned, the gateway to the spiritual world. He had seen men die with a look of wonder on their faces and knew he must be wearing the same expression.

  Continuing to stare into the blue, Blaney was rapt. His body tingled in awe as the blueness rushed at him and then his mind seemed to explode into stars. The Marlin jolted violently, one last death throe. He was aware of being thrown into the air, and of Kite and Cross tumbling nearby. Darkness enveloped him and he lost consciousness, drifting happily into the final void.

  REDMOND

  Rufus Redmond’s head spun with the motion of the ship as it was pulled deeper and deeper into the whirlpool. Hopelessly tangled in a mass of writhing bodies and broken bunks, he could do nothing to save himself. The storm had provided an opportunity for revenge and the vortex had taken it away. “Poxy bloody ship!” he cursed, reflecting on the last few minutes.

  He had slowly become aware of a subtle change to the storm. The Marlin was still heaving roughly, but the weather had eased. Compared to the previous half hour the sea was a mill pond. Redmond released his cramped arms from under his bunk and turned gingerly, careful not to incite another painful spasm.

  A single lantern, hanging in the guard area, dimly illuminated the hold. Some light also filtered in through the bars of the hatch above his head. Battened down earlier, the cover must have come loose during the storm. Spray and rain had blown through the opening to soak him, the salt getting under his shirt and setting fire to his wounds.

  The stench hit Redmond again. He could hear men vomiting, followed by the familiar wet slap against the planks. His stomach heaved. Convicts littered the bunks and slid about the floor and clung to the few intact hammocks, groaning and screaming in fear. Redmond thought Hell must be Heaven compared to this.