TimeStorm Page 8

  He started to look towards Redmond, but thought better of it. Williams continued.

  Redmond and his mates fled back to their ship soon after the fight. But there were many witnesses, so the local magistrate had no trouble locating his man.

  Watkins was puzzled. “But if there were all those witnesses, they must have seen it was self defence.”

  “T’was the magistrate’s nephew was killed,” said Williams, tapping his nose.

  “Weren’t interested in no witnesses, he weren’t.”

  “Even so,” argued Watkins, “it was now a navy matter. The magistrate was powerless. A ship’s captain has full jurisdiction over his men.”

  “That don’t matter. Cross give ’im up!”

  “He did what?” exclaimed Watkins, aghast.

  “‘Anded over, ’ee were,” nodded Williams. “Up the gangplank come the magistrate an’ Cross ’auls ’im off for a porter or two. Then they’s back on deck shakin’ ’ands an’ Rufus is carted off in chains. Done up proper, ’ee were.”

  It was incredible, thought Watkins. He could not conceive of a reason a Captain would give up one of his own men, but he pressed Williams for an answer.

  “Dunno, really,” shrugged the old convict, “but someone told me Rufus used t’be one o’ them adjit-whatsits.”

  “You mean an agitator?”

  “Aye,” agreed Williams, doubtfully. “One o’ them.”

  Watkins did not believe the old convict knew the meaning of the word, but now everything made sense. Agitators were appearing in every fleet, every ship. To their shipmates they were heroes, risking their lives to protest and improve the lot of their fellow sailors. To the navy they were a disease which had to be wiped out. Like scurvy. There was even one such man on the Fortune, always leading complaints about conditions. Mind you, admitted Watkins, there was plenty to complain about. The crew’s quarters were little better than those of the convicts. However, a restive crew would drive the officers of a ship to distraction and the surgeon could well understand why Cross made his decision.

  The arrival of the magistrate must have seemed like the second coming of Christ to the Captain. Here was a man who could clap his problem in irons and remove him permanently. Perfect. It was a terrible thing to do, sending an innocent man to almost certain death, yet Watkins warmed to Cross slightly. It was just the sort of decision he would have made himself.

  “Why didn’t they hang Redmond?”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Williams. “It were like this, see. Another Cap’n turns up at the trial an’ says as how he’d seen the fight. Ee’d taken a room in the tavern. Bet I know why, too.” Williams made an obscene gesture with his fingers, leaving very little to Watkins’s imagination. “They couldn’t ’ang Rufus after that. They give ’im life instead.”

  Watkins smiled. He imagined Redmond’s relief when he reached his ship after the fight, knowing the worse that could happen to him was a mild flogging for causing a ruckus ashore. Then he faced the horror of being given up by his Captain, something totally unheard of. The twist of fate resulting in Redmond being a convict on Cross’s ship was beautiful. God must be rolling on the floor with laughter, thought Watkins, chuckling to himself.

  Like the disgusting Williams, the surgeon did not envy Cross’s fate if Redmond ever got hold of him. He looked at the big, brooding shape of the convict in the shadows. He did not strike Watkins as a patient man.

  BLANEY

  Pacing the deck, Lieutenant Christopher Blaney was deep in thought. The lights lining miles of the New South Wales coast intrigued him, and he racked his brain for an explanation. But none came to him. Kite and Cross gazed fixedly at them from the rail, while Tommy Travis swung his telescope from side to side as though he had forgotten what land looked like. It was late, yet the crew, who normally made a beeline for their bunks when not on watch, milled around the decks in apprehension.

  As well they might, thought Blaney, for despite the line of the shore corresponding exactly to the Captain’s charts, there was something terribly wrong. The air, the sky, the miles of lights; nothing made sense. Or perhaps everything was as it should be and the Marlin was out of place. It was an interesting notion, but Cross suddenly spoke and broke Blaney’s concentration.

  “Almost there, Mr Blaney,” said the Captain, in a voice he intended to sound calm, but which sounded anything but.

  “Aye, sir. Would you like to tack until dawn?”

  “No,” answered Cross, resigned. “I’d rather be safely in port with the storm so close behind us. Port Jackson is well charted, though I doubt the Governor will have much of a welcome laid on at this time of the morning.”

  Blaney looked back to the storm clouds. They had kept pace all along the coast, some twenty miles away, as though stalking the ship. Fringed by moonlight, they glowed with menace. A strange storm this one, thought Blaney. It seemed to be travelling south when they met it, but perhaps it was angry after the Marlin escaped its clutches and wanted revenge. The Captain was right. The sooner they reached sheltered water the better, and Port Jackson was reputably one of the safest harbours in the world.

  Studying the coastline, Cross said, to no one in particular, “Do you know, I can’t understand why so many beacons should be lit on such a clear night.”

  Blaney exchanged glances with Kite. Cross must be speaking for the benefit of the crew, who hung on every word uttered by the officers. But the two Lieutenants were not fooled. Through the glass, buildings were clearly visible, many of them quite large, and there was a frightening glow reaching into the sky over an enormous area of land. The source would not be visible until they rounded South Head and entered Port Jackson.

  Blaney’s throat went dry and he fought back the fear rising through his body. One thing was certain; this was no impoverished colony of a mere eight years.

  REDMOND

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the convict hold, Rufus Redmond watched Dr Watkins treat Owen Williams’s broken ankle. The two of them looked quite cosy and had been talking for some time. Because of the nervous excitement of the crew above them on deck, Redmond gauged that they were close to their destination, so time was running out. He had been concentrating furiously for an hour and finally a plan was beginning to form in his mind.

  But it was bloody hard to concentrate with that bastard Mogley sitting close behind, he thought. The miserable little convict was picking his fingernails in an obsessive frenzy. Noah Lockwood saw Redmond was becoming angry and elbowed Mogley sharply in the ribs. He cried out, but when Redmond twisted round he fell instantly silent. Just as well, thought Redmond, I would have done more than jab him. His back still pained him when he twisted, but it was reduced to a burning ache now that the time for action had arrived.

  It was obvious that Williams and the surgeon were talking about him. Redmond caught Watkins frequently glancing his way between sentences, as though checking there was still the same distance between them. The surgeon was good – Redmond could not fault him in his profession – but he was also weak, a failing that the convict wove into his plan.

  “Don’t look like Williams is comin’ with us,” said Silas Hand, stating what they all knew two hours ago.

  “He’s no loss, an’ that’s the truth,” agreed Redmond. “It’s the rest o’ these sods we needs.”

  Noah Lockwood laughed quietly. “Now we’re close they know they’re only swapping one prison for another,” he said, his voice scratchy from retching. “There’ll be a stampede when you move. Everyone is sick of prison.”

  “Maybe,” allowed Redmond, careful not to let his hopes soar too high. “But I’ll believe it when I sees it wi’ me own two eyes.”

  Mogley had recovered enough to venture his own contribution to the conversation. “It’s all well ’n good to talk o’ escape, but ’ow do we get past them guards ’n their guns, eh?”

  Redmond looked to the guard room, where two marines lolled in their chairs. A plan struck him at that moment which was so simple he al
most discounted it. He turned back to look at Watkins, a feeling of exhilaration pumping him up. “I thinks the surgeon is about to do us all a good turn,” he whispered to himself.

  BLANEY

  Aided by a following wind, the bosun brought the Marlin into Port Jackson in a wide sweep. The beautiful, warm night and sparkling waters passed unnoticed by the officers and crew who lined the rails of the ship. They only had eyes for the dazzling view awaiting the vessel.

  Blaney dragged himself away from the heady sight and studied his chart, holding it close to the lantern suspended above him. Manly Cove was to starboard, its buildings unbelievably tall and its lights impossibly bright. Then ahead over Middle Head, approximately where they should find the settlement of New South Wales, he saw a bright tower high in the sky, a flashing lantern at its tip.

  “Where, in God’s name, are we?” asked Kite, croakily.

  “Perhaps we have died and this is heaven. Or hell.” Blaney wished he had not spoken.

  Kite did not respond, but an excited Tommy Travis asked, “Is this really New South Wales, sir?”

  Blaney felt as if he were dreaming. His outward appearance remained cool as ever, yet his insides were churning. “It would seem so, Mr Travis,” he answered. “The shoreline conforms to the map without variance.”

  The Marlin was well into the harbour now, gliding slowly down the channel, buildings and light to port, dark bushland with an occasional building to starboard. Thousands, no, millions of lanterns lit the harbour. Blaney’s eyes hurt so much he had to close them for a moment. He felt his heart pounding inside his chest, just as it did before battle.

  A small boat travelling in the opposite direction passed close to port. Kite pulled Blaney to the rail and everyone on deck leaned over to take a closer look. The wooden boat was about thirty feet in length and made a strange growling noise. There were no sails in sight.

  A man stood at the stern of the boat, swaying at odds with the movement of his vessel, obviously the worse for drink. He looked up at the crew on the Marlin’s rail and blinked rapidly. Then he spluttered and spat liquid over the side. “Christ, what a stink!” he exclaimed. Some of the men laughed and shouted back.

  Blaney sniffed the air. The smoky odour persisted, though he was more used to it now, yet he could not understand the disgust in the man’s voice. Alarmed that one of his sailors was about to impart information, Blaney silenced him and stepped to the stern rail. “Your name, sir” he called.

  “Charlie Wells,” answered the man.

  “And what is your business here?”

  Wells opened his mouth to answer, but then became indignant. “Never mind that,” he said, “who the hell are you.”

  Blaney studied the ill-mannered Wells and satisfied himself that the man was someone of no import. “Go home, sir, there is nothing here to interest you.” With that he rejoined Kite who was standing behind him.

  “What did you make of the accent, Henry?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Kite, “but he sounded like a damned foreigner to me.”

  Blaney thought about it himself. The accent sounded like a mixture of Irish and something else. Certainly the voice of one of the lower classes. At least the man spoke English. For a moment Blaney thought he would turn out to be a Frog. But of course, the French were incapable of building any of the wonders populating the shoreline.

  “It is fantastic!” exclaimed Cross, raising his arms in delight. He had been so silent Blaney forgot he was standing close by. “I think we have missed New South Wales and sailed into a fairy land!”

  The Captain’s view of their predicament was not reflected by the crew, whose faces showed fascination and fear at the same time. Blaney felt the same. His mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, because if this really was the colony – and given the chart, he could hardly deny it – then how was it possible to build such a gigantic settlement in only eight years. Surely it would take ten times as long...

  The thought struck him like a hammer blow. He clung to the rail as he felt legs begin to fail him. Could it be true? If it was, he realised with growing trepidation, the Marlin had been blown much further than a mere thousand miles.

  HANSON

  Doug Hanson looked up from his crossword and gazed idly through the window. The view across the inner harbour left visitors to the shipping control tower impressed, yet Hanson took it for granted these days. The lights of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the spectacularly lit buildings rising up the hill from Milsons Point to North Sydney left him cold. As did the new foreshore developments nearby along the Hungry Mile. It was a shame, he conceded, for in the first year of the job it was difficult to drag himself away from the view. These days, however, he had more pressing matters on his mind. What the hell was the capital of Bolivia anyway?

  Perhaps he should ask Bob Walker, who sat in the centre of the room, his face green in the reflected radar screen. Hanson decided against it. Walker would only know the answer and gloat about it. They had shared the night shift for almost four years and were anything but compatible. Walker was a stickler for the rules, everything had to be by the book and well documented. He was ambitious and saw himself climbing the harbour authority ladder to the top.

  Hanson knew better. The only place you could go after reaching the top floor of the control tower, was down. He was perfectly happy in his job, though. He did what he had to do, enjoyed his crosswords and books and loved the solitude. In a more simple world he could easily see himself becoming a lighthouse keeper. Now, where was he? Oh, yes, Bolivia...

  “Look at this, Doug!”

  The sound of Walker’s voice startled Hanson. The circular room did strange things to sound. Though Walker was directly in front of him, the voice came from his left.

  “Hurry up!”

  Hanson moved deliberately slowly. Walker was easily excited and as a matter of principle Hanson was not prepared to show much interest in anything the other man did or said. Besides, it was probably nothing. Little of any interest happened on the harbour in the dead of night, and on this shift a speck in a cup of coffee was regarded as being memorable.

  “What’s up?” asked Hanson, joining his colleague. He glanced at the wall clock. It was 2.58am. A time that would remain embedded in his memory.

  Walker pointed at the radar screen, though before his eyes adjusted, Hanson could only see their reflections. It irritated him that although two years older at thirty-eight, Walker looked ten years younger. It was the hair, Hanson reasoned. Walker had some. He looked in vain for a bald spot.

  Focussing on the screen, Hanson watched the green arm trace a circle, the arc interrupted by an object in the middle of the upper harbour. It moved slowly west through Port Jackson.

  “What do you reckon?” he asked. He knew Walker could read a screen like a fortune teller read a crystal ball.

  “It’s fairly large,” answered Walker. “But nothing official is due in tonight and anything that size would need clearance. Put out a call, will you?”

  “Sure.” Sitting close to the screen, Hanson switched on the transmitter and adjusted the microphone. He flicked the all frequencies switch. “This is Sydney Control calling the unauthorised vessel...” he paused to check the location, “...adjacent to Bradleys Head. Identify yourself. Over.”

  A crackle of static was the only reply. “Repeat. Vessel passing Bradleys Head. Identify yourself. Over.”

  Hanson tried again without success and turned to Walker. The older man walked to the eastern window. Looking past him, Hanson could see nothing through the gap between the bridge and the Opera House. Everything was lost in the shimmer of city lights.

  “All right,’ said Walker decisively. “Call the police. They’ll have to send a launch.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Hanson, with some alarm. “Remember last month?” On that occasion the Water Police had not taken too kindly to being called out, even though they were on duty. There was talk that a major card game had been in progress and few of the T
ower’s staff escaped a parking ticket over the following couple of weeks. The boat turned out to be a Christmas trip by a dozen politicians on a millionaire’s cruiser.

  Walker shrugged. “It’s our balls if it is something and we ignore it. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  Hanson did not like the ‘our’ bit. Walker was supervisor, and good or bad, he would carry the can. However, he knew the man was right. He dialled the number and as he waited for the connection, the answer jumped into his mind. “La Paz!”

  “What?”

  “It’s the capital of Bolivia.”

  “I knew that,” said Walker, smugly.

  BLANEY

  Few words were spoken during the gliding progress of the Marlin through Port Jackson. There were noises, however; the sounds made by the crew as they spotted one incredible sight after another. Their exclamations of wonder and fright infected Christopher Blaney, leaving him breathless and mesmerised. Almost every man was on deck, leaning over the rails, their arms pointing like the oars of a slave galley.

  The harbour held incredible beauty, its waters fired by the reflections of brightly lit buildings ashore. Blaney saw his feelings mirrored by the other officers, Cross, Kite and Travis all glued to the rail, their heads jerking to and fro in bewilderment.

  But if they were incredulous at the sight of the outer harbour, nothing could prepare them all for the view when the Marlin rounded Bradleys Head. A collective sigh rose from the men when the sweeping majesty of Sydney Town appeared, with its enormous shiny towers and gigantic illuminated bridge straddling the harbour. Blaney felt a lump come into his throat as he tried to take it all in. His skin tingled and he felt light-headed. It was too much for many of the crew. They backed away from the rail, some crossing themselves, others wailing in fear.

  What kind of men could build such structures, Blaney wondered. This may be New South Wales, but it was not the tiny collection of dwellings shown on his map. He let the chart fall from his hand and flutter to the deck.