TimeStorm Page 6

But something else concerned him. There was no noise from above. They were through the worst of the storm, so the decks should be reverberating with the impact of running feet and shouted orders. Redmond could follow the feet of a sailor across his ceiling and know exactly which task he would perform. Sails should be hoisted and distance put rapidly between the ship and the bad weather, but there was nothing to indicate any action by the crew.

  Redmond stood up to look through the hatch, but his foot squelched on something foul and slippery beside Mogley’s bunk. “You filthy bastard!” he hissed, but Mogley was either asleep or unconscious. Redmond wiped his foot on the loathsome convict’s body before proceeding. The act was pointless, however, as the floor was a sea of human waste and he waded through it, ankle deep.

  Gripping the hatch bars, Redmond pulled himself up to sniff at the fresh air. Crewmen made sport out of stamping on convict fingers, so he was ready to jump back in an instant, but there was no one in sight. He could hear someone breathing harshly nearby, but it concerned him that naturally boisterous sailors should be this subdued. Listening closely, he heard men quietly praying and he felt the first icy tingles of fear. Something terrible must have happened.

  Redmond’s instincts were confirmed in an instant. No sooner had he taken in the towering funnel of cloud above the ship, than he heard the terrified voice of a seaman near the prow.

  “Whirlpool!”

  The hatch bars bent under Redmond’s weight as his legs turned weak. What cruel twist of fate had placed him on this ship, he wondered. It was bad enough Cross had ruined his life, but now even nature turned against him. He would die among this worthless scum, wallowing in shit and vomit as the Marlin was reduced to match-wood. It was no consolation that Cross would die in the whirlpool, either. Redmond would not be cheated and he decided there was nothing left to lose. He would be damned if he died in this hold.

  Releasing his grip on the bars, Redmond set off for the door to the guard room, wading carefully through the stinking human mud and climbing roughly over men. The clean air at the hatch made the smell inside the hold worse. Even when he held his breath it was there, smothering his body. He belched loudly and almost vomited.

  Close to the door he was knocked off his feet when the Marlin pitched sharply to starboard. He fell heavily across a convict lying on a bunk. The man did not seem to notice and Redmond levered himself back to his feet. He gritted his teeth for the expected wave of back pain, but it never came. He grunted in satisfaction. Staggering to the door bars he remembered a happier day when surgeon Garrett’s head was wedged between them.

  There were two guards on duty in the small room. It was a square shaped area with the convict hold door set in the fore bulkhead. Opposite were the stairs to the open deck, beneath them a bolted door. Redmond’s knowledge of ships made him curious about that door. As he had only ever seen marines use it, he surmised, with a great deal of interest, it was a way to the armoury. The guardroom was furnished with a table and two chairs.

  One of the marines on duty, hardly more than a boy, was retching into a bucket. Suffer, you bastard, thought Redmond. He looked at the other man and envied his constitution. Incredibly, the guard was fast asleep in his chair, which was lashed to the bulkhead, impervious to the suffering of the convicts and the noisy fate of the ship. His lips vibrated as he snored, though no sound could be heard over the piercing whine of the whirlpool.

  The sleeping marine had a set of keys fastened to the waistband of his britches and Redmond imagined he could hear them clink each time the man’s chest heaved. He had to get the soldier close enough to grab, but shouting was pointless in the din. Looking around frantically for something to throw, he was painfully aware that time was running out and Cross might escape revenge.

  An idea occurred to Redmond when the man he had fallen across threw up behind him. Feeling the slime soak warmly through his trousers, he kicked the convict roughly away in disgust. Without thinking, he stooped and gathered a handful of warm vomit and threw it at the sleeping guard. It landed slap between his eyes and slid down either side of his nose to his mouth.

  The marine woke with a start, licked his lips and felt his face. Holding his sticky fingers beneath his nose, he recoiled from the smell as he realised the origin of the substance.

  “Holy mudder o’ God!” he exclaimed, his whining voice carrying to Redmond.

  A bloody Irishman! thought Redmond happily. This was going to be a pleasure. He leaned back into the shadows, steadying himself against a supporting column. The Irish marine had difficulty negotiating the sloping floor but he was incensed enough to go in search of the culprit.

  “Which o’ youse poxy buggers trew dis?” he demanded, holding up a slimy hand.

  Just a bit closer, prayed Redmond silently.

  “Come on, out wid it!”

  That’s it, nodded Redmond as the guard came even closer. Another step and he would leap forward and grab the marine by the throat through the bars. He grinned tightly and watched the marine lift a foot to edge forward, only to be robbed of his victory at the last second.

  Light flooded the stairwell and Redmond was revealed, plain as day, behind the bars. The guard’s eyes opened wide in surprise. He jumped back and fell heavily on his backside. Redmond lunged through the bars in desperation, but his fingers only raked the Irishman’s jacket. The convict roared in frustration as the Marlin tipped onto her side.

  Redmond tumbled helplessly back into the hold, part of a tide of men, bunks and shit sliding and tumbling across the floor. He fetched up against the starboard wall, half submerged in slime and tangled with other bodies. The pain of his back returned, but he no longer had the will or strength to fight it. He knew his last chance had passed and he would die defeated.

  BLANEY

  “Wake up, sir. Please wake up!”

  Christopher Blaney opened his eyes. This was difficult as his eyelids felt as if they were glued shut. Tommy Travis was kneeling over him, concern quickly turning to relief. I must look much better than I feel, thought Blaney.

  “What happened?” he asked through cracked lips. He felt almost disappointed to find he was still alive after experiencing something so profound.

  “I don’t know, sir,” answered the midshipman, “I only just woke myself.”

  Lifting himself up on his elbows, Blaney immediately regretted the movement. A sharp pain zeroed in on the right side of his head, then spread all around his skull. Bright flashes of light filled his vision.

  “Are you hurt?” said Travis, not knowing what he should do.

  “I will live,” Blaney reassured him, not totally convinced this was true. Feeling his head carefully, he found a small lump just above his right ear and was happy to discover an external source of the pain. “It’s only a bump,” he said, sitting up. His head was clearing quickly, though the throbbing remained.

  The Marlin, he saw, was surprisingly intact. Twenty feet of the main mast had been sheared off and swung limply in the rigging, but the ship still felt solid and seaworthy beneath him. Surely makeshift repairs would see them safely to the colony.

  Slight seas made for a pleasant motion and the sun’s rays slanted in over the port side. “What’s our heading?” asked Blaney.

  Travis was ready for the question. “North-west, sir.”

  Then it was late afternoon. Blaney rubbed his face, finding more than a day’s growth of beard. A whole day lost! They could be miles off course, but if they were, then the storm had kept pace. The dark cloud mountain filled the southern sky, far too close for comfort.

  Blaney suddenly realised he and Travis were alone. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. “The Captain? Mr Kite?...”

  Travis’s eyes became misty. “I...I think I saw them go over the rail.”

  The Lieutenant’s heart missed a beat, before he understood that Travis meant the rail to the lower deck. He saw someone had placed a holding becket over a spoke of the wheel to hold their course and made for the stairs, praying the fall was n
ot fatal.

  Blaney and Travis shared a sigh of relief when they looked down.

  “Ah, Mr Blaney,” said Cross by way of greeting, “I see you are still with us.” He was sitting on the deck beside the unconscious shape of Kite. Other bodies littered the deck. Blaney hurried down to join them, his injury rendered unimportant. A crewman had placed a folded shirt beneath Kite’s head and was splashing water on his face in an attempt to revive him.

  Cross waved a tired hand. “I’m afraid Mr Kite provided me with a soft landing, though Trainer here tells me he is not badly hurt.”

  The sailor grinned shyly and nodded. “Winded bad, by my reck’nin’, sir.”

  Crewmen stirred everywhere, many of them, like Blaney, nursing sore heads. The bosun moved among them, pulling out men he considered fit.

  “Any bad injuries, Mr Briggs?” called Blaney.

  “Dunno, sir. I seen a few broken bones, but we won’t know ’bout the rest ’til they wakes.” He looked about. “Or don’t.”

  “Very well,” said Blaney. “Send some men to carry the injured below. And fetch the carpenter, if he’s fit, to look at the mast. I want a full damage report within the half hour.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Briggs set about his tasks, the toe of his boot making it clear there would be no malingering.

  “Thank you, Mr Blaney,” said Captain Cross. “Help me up, would you.”

  Travis helped Blaney get the Captain on his feet, but they had to support him when he immediately stumbled clutching his right leg. “Damn it!” Cross cursed. “It’s gone again!”

  Blaney knelt to pull the leggings away from the Captain’s swollen knee. It was badly bruised, but he did not think there was any major damage.

  “Always had trouble with that one,” explained Cross. “Fell off a gangplank twenty years ago. I dare say it will loosen up in a day or so.” He waved the officers away testily and put weight on the leg. Although in obvious pain, he managed to walk in a circle, limping heavily.

  Kite groaned and opened his eyes. Blaney sat beside him. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Squinting, Kite tried to focus. “Two...no, three.”

  “Lie still for a few moments, Henry,” said Blaney. He had held up only one finger. “When you feel sufficiently recovered, take a reading and find out where the devil we are. It will be dark soon.”

  “Oh, Mr Travis.” Blaney thought of another necessary task. “Go and sound the well.” He watched the boy hurry off. The Marlin was fairly stable and rode high in the water, but he would be far happier when he knew how much water she had shipped during the storm.

  Happy his subordinates were in control, Cross climbed the stairs. “I’m off to my cabin, Mr Blaney. I want to enter what happened in the log before I forget. It is easier to believe I imagined everything.”

  “It was real, sir,” said Blaney, following him to make sure he did not fall. But did it really happen? he wondered. For it to be real the world must have turned inside out. Impossible. The spinning, the confusion, a chance in a million ejected them from the whirlpool. “We were saved by a miracle.”

  “Aye,” agreed Cross. “Nevertheless, I must find some words to describe it. A story for your grandchildren, eh?”

  Blaney smiled. Cross was cheerful enough, but his good humour seemed forced and his eyes were dull, as though there was a light mist behind them.

  The Captain stopped before going to his cabin. “Tell me, Kit, do you notice an unusual odour?”

  Since he woke, Blaney had known something was amiss, though until now he could not pinpoint the sensation. He wrinkled his nose, inhaling deeply. There was a distinct smoky, dusty, smell, as though the air was dirty. It reminded him of his childhood, when the chimney was swept. The house retained a similar odour for days afterward.

  “Yes,” said Blaney, “very unusual. I can’t imagine what it is, though.”

  Cross thought for a moment and shook his head. “No matter, Mr Blaney. Advise me of any injuries and damage. Oh, and send a man aloft to look out for the Fortune. Let us pray she, too, escaped.”

  Blaney felt a pang of guilt when Cross departed. He had not given the other ship a single thought. Looking back to the storm clouds, he wondered if she had followed the Marlin to safety.

  “Sir!” Tommy Travis ran up to him.

  “Well, Mr Travis, are we sinking?”

  “No, sir,” the midshipman reported happily. “The water is no more than a foot above the normal reading.”

  Good news, indeed, thought Blaney. Like all ships, the Marlin constantly leaked and had to be pumped every day. By lowering a measure down the well to the bottom of the ship, Travis was able to confirm the damage to the hull was minimal. “Ask Mr Briggs to organise a pump crew.”

  Travis ran off, passing Henry Kite, who was climbing the stairs to see Blaney. “Are you sure you are all right, Henry?” asked Blaney, noticing the younger Lieutenant wobbling counter to the ship’s movement.

  Kite nodded. “I am still a little dizzy and my ribs are sore, but I’m feeling much better. The Captain may be unwell, but he still carries considerable weight.”

  Blaney laughed as Kite headed off to fetch his instruments from below.

  “Rouse Dr Watkins while you’re down there,” he called after Kite. “The blasted fellow should be up and about by now. There’s work to be done.”

  Blaney made an inspection of the ship and then watched the carpenter supervise makeshift repairs to the mast. Two dozen men were aloft, cutting the broken mast and rigging away and lowering them to deck. He saw they could jury rig the ship for the short haul, though he could not be drawn on how long it would hold up under rough weather. Sail was set with the sun ready to drop below the horizon and their present course was maintained subject to Kite’s reading.

  Satisfied, Blaney watched the sunset, a quarter of the sky magically lit by red and gold. In all his years he had never seen anything as beautiful. Or as disturbing. Something was in the air that should not be there, and it was not only the strange odour. The world was somehow different and he suspected it had not changed for the better.

  WATKINS

  Dr James Watkins opened his eyes to find himself on the floor of his cabin in a state of confusion. He examined himself for injury, but his relief soon turned to disgust. The terrible crash, which signalled the end of the storm and rendered him unconscious, had also propelled the contents of his bucket all over the tiny cabin. As he had spent the entire storm heaving into the receptacle he was horrified to find himself rolling in his own filth. By God! Cross and his jinxed ship had a lot to answer for!

  But now there were new dangers to worry about, he realised. There would be injuries to treat. The crew presented no problems, but he shuddered at the thought of entering the convict hold. If it was similar to the prisoners quarters on the Fortune, the convicts would have been flung about the hold like dolls. And worse, because the men were tightly packed, many would have survived!

  Watkins changed into clean clothes, grimacing as he handled the soiled garments. They were ruined, of course, and he made a mental note to make a claim for them on the navy. “Damn this ship and all aboard!” he cursed angrily.

  Picking up his bag he left the cabin, only to crash into Kite, whose books and instruments fell to the floor, much to Watkins’s sadistic pleasure. He made no move to help the Lieutenant pick them up. “What the devil’s been going on, Kite?” he demanded.

  Kite bent down to recover his scattered possessions, not at all put out by the surgeon’s bad manners. “You should have seen it,” he said excitedly. “We endured the most incredible storm and even escaped from a whirlpool! Though God knows how.”

  Yes, yes, thought Watkins, staring at the imbecilic officer. The very last place to be during a savage storm was the deck of a ship. Didn’t the fool realise that? “I suppose there are injuries?”

  “Some of the crew are hurt,” answered Kite. “They are being brought down to the mess. The Captain requires your services first, h
owever. He has injured a knee.”

  Pity it wasn’t his neck, thought Watkins. “What about the damned convicts?”

  “I have no idea,” said Kite. He had picked up his things and edged past the surgeon. There was a definite hint of amusement on his face as he continued. “But my guess is that there will be more than enough to keep you busy down there for a long time.”

  Kite departed cheerfully, leaving the surgeon fuming. He silently cursed the Lieutenant for his news and his lack of respect. He set off, slowly, for the Captain’s cabin, cheering himself with the sincere hope that Redmond had suffered a grisly death.

  REDMOND

  “Fetch the soddin’ doctor, you bastards!” yelled Rufus Redmond, as he gripped the bars of the hold door.

  The Irish marine stared back blankly, his outstretched musket pointed at the convict. The other guard sat miserably at the table, his boyish features drawn and yellow.

  “These men need help!” continued Redmond, his words falling on deaf ears. Surviving the storm had renewed his hope and fired his determination. But the damage inflicted in the convict hold could pose a serious threat to his escape plans. Few men appeared to have avoided injury and in the dim light it was impossible to make out the extent of the destruction. Sounds of fear and anguish filled his ears and screams of agony greeted every gentle roll of the ship. Pathetic bundles of convicts lay about the hold like molehills on a moonlit night.

  Redmond could not give a damn if all of them died. But not until after the escape. He needed fit men, not a bunch of whining children. New South Wales could not be far away and he would not be thwarted this close to his goal.

  “Get that rottin’ surgeon down here!” screamed Redmond, desperation in his voice. He beat his fists against the bars in frustration.

  Thumping footsteps on the stairs preceded the arrival of Sergeant Driscoll. The two marine guards greeted his arrival with relief.

  “What’s all the bloody noise down here?” he demanded. A malicious grin appeared on his face when he saw the convict behind the door. “Ah, Redmond. I should’ve known it were you from the stink.”