TimeStorm Page 9

  “Look!” cried Kite, pointing to port.

  There were so many things to see, it took a moment for Blaney to locate the subject of Kite’s interest. Then he saw it, a great grey ship some five hundred yards away. It dwarfed the Marlin and in this light appeared to be made of metal. Impossible, thought Blaney, yet in this place...

  He rubbed his eyes, sore from hardly daring to blink in case he missed something, and resumed his inspection of the shore. He had no experience or reference that would enable him to even attempt to understand what he was seeing. His thoughts were a jumble as his mind fought the insane evidence of his vision.

  The cry of alarm from amidships almost went unnoticed on the officers’ deck. Blaney thought it was merely another frightened crewman, but a bloodcurdling scream of agony forced his attention to the convict hatchway. The sight rendered the harbour view insignificant. Blaney’s blood ran cold.

  WATKINS

  Dr James Watkins approached his final patient in the convict hold with undisguised relief. Though he sensed he was in no danger from the prisoners, he’d had a gutful of the odious, stinking hold and its oppressive atmosphere. It would take more than Cross or his damned officers to lure him here again. That would hardly be necessary, however, if the sounds from the deck were any guide. They were in Sydney many days early, obviously the result of sloppy readings taken by Cross and his loathsome Lieutenants.

  As he bound the last convict’s two broken fingers, Watkins thought about his new lodgings. He had been told they overlooked the superb harbour, in an elevated area inhabited by the finer residents of the fledgling colony. Of course, he knew, they would hardly rank with the real nobility of England, but the outpost was growing and authentic men of substance would soon arrive. He had no doubt his practice would thrive in a very short period of time.

  The noises from above became a little disquieting. The men had been away from land for too long, thought Watkins. He was nevertheless eager to go aloft and see what the fuss was all about. The convict groaned as the surgeon tightened his bandage. “Shut up, man,” he warned. “Be grateful I thought your injury worthy of treatment.”

  He saw unusual light streaming through the grille above him, unlike sunlight or moonlight, it had a strange hue and was unrecognisable. That’s enough, he thought, pushing the treated convict out of the way. Time to get out. He reached for his pocket watch, but found, to his alarm, it had gone. One of these ungrateful swine has stolen it! The piece had no sentimental value, even though it was a family heirloom. The fact it was worth ten guineas weighed far more heavily on his sensibilities.

  But before his rage exploded in physical retribution on the prisoners around him, Watkins realised his folly. The rabble would tear him to pieces if he attempted to recover his property. The best course, he decided, would be to have them all searched as they left the ship. And if possible in full view of the town and in the most humiliating way possible.

  The men on deck were becoming more excited and reminded him it was time to move. Weary, he gathered his instruments and stuffed them in his case, which he was sure was lighter than when he arrived. But he would inspect the contents later. He looked up when he heard running feet on the stairs. A marine entered the guard room in a high state of excitement. His name was Cravat; he had been the surgeon’s first patient when he arrived from the Fortune. A nasty boil on the neck.

  “Come up topside, lads,” announced Cravat, “yer’ll not believe yer eyes!”

  Watkins quickly clambered over the wreckage littering the floor, knowing that he was in danger of being stranded in the hold. The Irish marine followed Cravat up the stairs before the surgeon reached the door, but the younger guard hesitated. Watkins breathed a sigh of relief. “No you don’t, soldier,” he said savagely. “Let me out first!”

  The young marine had a foot on the stairs and was clearly in two minds about unlocking the door without assistance, but Watkins was relentless. “Jump to it, boy! Or I’ll see you flogged for insubordination.”

  The words did the trick and the wide-eyed youth hurried back to the door, fumbling nervously with his keys. Watkins was so relieved he did not comment when the guard propped his musket next to the door while inserting the key. All the surgeon could think about was the fresh air upstairs, away from this stinking pit.

  Pushing open the door the second the lock snapped open, Watkins sensed sudden movement behind him. But before he could react, he heard a dreadful bellow of triumph from close behind. He was lifted through the door by rough hands and thrown against the starboard bulkhead. Crashing to the floor, winded, he was aware of the convicts spilling into the guard area behind Rufus Redmond. The big convict picked up the young marine by the scruff of the neck and slapped him twice, hard.

  “Where’s the armoury?” he screamed.

  The boy was crying in fear, but Watkins was too interested in his own fate to give a damn. He lay motionless, watching the drama out of the corner of his eye. The youth pointed a shaking finger to the door under the stairs and Redmond nodded as though it were confirmation. He then threw the marine, as though he were little more than a sack of grain, head first into the wall near to Watkins. The surgeon needed no second opinion to see that the youth was dead, his neck broken. He was the victim of his own stupidity, Watkins knew, but he could not look at the lifeless, accusing eyes.

  More convicts poured from the hold and milled about the guard area in confusion and, more importantly, ignored Watkins. Some began to mount the stairs, while others waited to follow the crowd to the armoury. They became more and more rowdy and then convicts with weapons pushed back through the armoury door and surged to the deck.

  Watkins thought he’d been forgotten and gained enough courage to raise his head, instantly regretting the move. A convict stood above him, a man with an ugly, pointed face and sharp, yellow teeth. The surgeon had seen the man near to Redmond in the hold and now his vicious expression told Watkins he was not there to wish him well in his new practice.

  Before Watkins was able to plead for his life, the convict swung his foot into his stomach. The surgeon doubled up in pain as another kick caught him heavily on the side of the head. He sank back to the floor, drifting into welcome unconsciousness, as the man’s harsh laughter echoed distantly in his ears.

  BLANEY

  Lieutenant Blaney assessed the situation in a matter of seconds. He was not interested in how or why convicts were streaming on deck from the midship hatchway like rats from a sinking ship, he only knew he had to stop them. And fast. Escape by the convicts meant the death penalty, so they had nothing to lose, but an unruly mob would be no match for trained crewmen, despite the surprise of the initial attack. The convicts screamed bloody murder and the four crewmen closest to the hatch were caught off guard and savagely hacked to death.

  Sergeant Driscoll instantly organised his marines, sending them across the deck to meet the attack head on, giving Blaney precious seconds to mobilise the crew. The marines’ muskets were unloaded, but their bayonets were more than a match for the convicts’ cutlasses. Several convicts were skewered by the organised defence force.

  Winning would not be easy, however, thought Blaney. The marines were being pressed back by sheer weight of numbers and the crewmen Blaney threw in behind them, cut off from the armoury, were armed only with their sailor’s knives.

  The line of redcoats began to thin. Initially, they had formed a rough semicircle about the prisoners, confining them to a small area close to the hatch. But the press of men forcing themselves up from below urged their fellows forward. Several crewmen trapped beyond the convicts were quickly slaughtered. The soldiers had to back pedal just to remove their bayonets from the convicts’ bodies, leaving space for more of them to join the fray. Blaney watched incredulously as dead men seemed to walk because there was no room to fall. The red defence line now stretched the width of the ship. Blaney jumped down the steps to the lower deck and ordered sailors to fill the gaps.

  The situation was growing despe
rate, yet the line held. Blaney moved up and down the lines, encouraging the men. Close up, he saw madness in the prisoners’ eyes. They were in a frenzy, their sudden escape giving vent to years of fury and resentment. Kite joined Blaney, a resolute grin on his face, as Cross barked at the men from above. “Forward!” he bellowed over the din.

  Blaney and Kite roared, a cry taken up by marines and sailors as they counterattacked. The convicts began to give way and quick-thinking marines kicked back dropped weapons with their heels. Blaney went in, his sword thrusting between two marines into the belly of a convict. The man pitched forward onto a marine’s bayonet, his blood splashing high up Blaney’s arm. The convicts were falling back rapidly and their faces showed fear instead of anger. Marines and sailors sensed their victory and moved in for the kill, staggering over dead and maimed bodies in their rush.

  In the two minutes of action, Blaney had not noticed the absence of Rufus Redmond. Now, as the big convict rose from below deck like the devil himself, the course of the battle changed dramatically. Standing head and shoulders above the rest, Redmond swung his sword and cutlass venomously with little regard for friend or foe. He’s possessed by a demon! thought Blaney.

  Redmond’s presence saw the convicts stop in their tracks and then throw themselves back to the attack. It seemed that dying at the hands of a marine was preferable to facing the mad giant. Metal clashed and men died screaming in agony. The deck became slick with blood, the press of bodies keeping men from slipping and sliding.

  The counter thrust of the convicts opened up the defensive cordon, so Blaney and Kite joined the line. Exhausted marines and crewmen were falling about them and Blaney hoped that the younger Lieutenant’s first taste of deadly action did not turn out to be his last. The defenders held the line for a moment, giving Blaney hope, but it was only short-lived. With so much blood underfoot it was difficult to stand, never mind push forward, and with still more convicts coming from below Blaney found his foes literally sliding towards him.

  Redmond was getting into the fight now, both his weapons glistening wet in the night. What cruel God, wondered Blaney, had made such an evil man two-handed as well?

  The big convict, however, appeared to view the battle as an inconvenience. Hacking and thrusting, he rarely took his eyes from Captain William Cross, who directed his men from the higher deck. Blaney decided the convict would only reach the Captain over his dead body. He began to fight his way across to Redmond’s path.

  REDMOND

  At bloody last! Redmond burst onto the deck, sending the convicts in front of him tumbling forward. Quickly summing up the situation, he saw his men were losing ground and being forced ever further from the upper deck where the bastard Cross stood, too cowardly to fight.

  Redmond had made a terrible mistake in leading the men to the armoury, becoming trapped as they crushed in behind him for weapons. It was fortunate Lockwood kept his wits about him and led the first charge. Redmond could see him now, close to the front, his blade flashing in the eerie light. The big convict was aware that something was seriously amiss on shore, but there was work to be done if he was to survive.

  Elbowing his way through the prisoners, Redmond laid into the marines with cutlass and sword, slicing through soft tissue and feeling the jarring sensation when steel met bone. He had to be careful as he moved, for the deck was slick with blood which welled warmly between his bare toes.

  He thrust his cutlass through the throat of a marine and shook the man off the blade and was suddenly face to face with Sergeant Driscoll. The soldier’s eyes were bright and glassy, his face bloody and grim. Redmond lunged with the cutlass at his throat. Driscoll parried the blow easily, but he had no defence against the sword. Redmond forced Driscoll’s bayonet up into the air and ran the marine through, exerting brute strength to force the sword through resistant organs, and felt the sawing vibration as the blade scraped the marine’s backbone.

  “How’s your back, Driscoll?” he asked savagely.

  The Sergeant’s eyes dimmed like an extinguished candle and he vomited black blood onto Redmond’s chest and slid to the ground. The sword was embedded in the marine and Redmond could not retrieve it even when he put a foot on Driscoll’s chest for purchase. He left it and continued on.

  Driscoll’s death spurred the convicts. Redmond yelled in triumph and waved his cutlass over his head to encourage them. The crew were done for now, but he would not be happy until every last man was dead.

  “Kill the bastards!” he screamed, hate and revenge filling him. He hurled himself forward, his whirling weapon delivering death and dismemberment to anyone who came within striking range. Blood dripped from his face and hair and soaked him from head to foot. “I’m comin’, Cross,” he shrieked. “You mark me, you poxy bastard! I’m comin’ for yer!”

  BLANEY

  There was no room to swing his sword, but Blaney could still thrust. Shoulder to shoulder he fought with the men, leading by example in a fight rapidly becoming hopeless. The bulk of the remaining crew had to retreat to the upper deck, but Blaney and Kite and two dozen men held the foot of the stairs against overwhelming odds. He knew no prisoners would be taken by this mob.

  Blaney ran his sword through a convict’s eye and then saw Redmond was only feet away. The man moved like the devil was inside him, but Blaney was ready. The crewman between them froze in fear and Redmond’s cutlass whistled through the air and took off the top of the man’s head. Blood and brains splashed into Blaney’s face and he could not see for a few seconds until he wiped his face on a sleeve. The giant face of Rufus Redmond loomed directly in front of him, his eyes wild, his beard dripping blood. Even his teeth were stained red, as though he had been feeding on the carnage. Blaney felt a calmness descend on him. He grinned savagely and stepped in front of the convict.

  CROSBY

  Sergeant Graham ‘Bing’ Crosby gunned the police launch out from its harbour mooring on the southern shore of East Balmain. In a foul mood, he cursed the headquarters for calling him out, his boss for putting him on this shift, the bastard sailing in the harbour without permission, and his wife. “Five more years and you’ll be fifty-five,” she’d said, “full police pension, long service, the lot! Think what we’ll be able to do!”

  What you’ll be able to do, Marjorie, he thought. With his blood pressure at an all time high and possessing a stomach you could play chess on, Crosby thought five years was wildly optimistic.

  God! this shift was a pain! Five times in the last two nights they were called out. A bloody false alarm or something trivial each time. Returning from the previous call he had poured a cup of tea, kicked off his shoes and settled nicely in front of the TV when that fucking bell rang again! Well, this time he’d had enough. He was going to throw the book at whoever was responsible.

  Rounding Dawes Point under the Harbour Bridge, the unidentified object in question came immediately into view. It was drifting just beyond Fort Denison, lights dancing in its rigging.

  “It’s a sailing ship!” said Officer Harry Bell, bursting into the small wheelhouse.

  Crosby frowned at the youngster. There was nothing worse when you were miserable than to be confronted by a kid full of enthusiasm. I was never like that, thought Crosby. Was I?

  “Your observational skill will certainly take you to the top,” he said without a hint of humour, as he watched the ship grow larger through his window. The bow of the vessel was swinging slowly to starboard. The main mast was too short and the few sails visible didn’t sit right, though he couldn’t make out the full extent of the problem from this distance. Crosby had always been an engine man, but he had to admit the ship was impressive.

  “I crewed one just like that ship on a cadet trip to New Zealand,” said Bell.

  “How interesting,” answered Crosby, his voice anything but interested. Closer now, he could see something was happening on the deck of the sailing ship, but the launch’s lower angle meant he couldn’t quite make sense of it. Lots of reflected flashe
s shot out from deck and there was a lot of movement aboard. And noise. Drunken yelling, no doubt. Why people had to scream when they drank, was beyond him. He became angry again. Bet it’s a party and they’ve got one of those mirror balls, he decided. I’ll have their bloody balls! Bet the bastard’s switched his radio off, too. Like his brain! Crosby would not be happy until every boat except his own was banned from harbour waters.

  “Can we go aboard?” asked Bell.

  Crosby ignored the question. He was busy bringing the launch under the port side of the vessel with a not too gentle bump. He was looking forward to having a few words with the so-called Captain of this bloody ship. He glanced around the cabin to see where he had put his handcuffs.

  CROSS

  Captain William Cross followed the battle from his position on the upper deck. The fight was as fierce and bloody as any he had seen, yet it was still difficult to believe it began from within his own ship. Damn Driscoll for his laxity! He’d been in charge of securing the convict hold and had paid for his stupidity with his life.

  The noise was tremendous; frenzied screams, grunting men and clashing weapons echoed across the waters and came back from every direction. Cross could only watch helplessly as the bloody, rag-tag horde descended on his men, moving inevitably closer. Redmond made all the difference; the convicts would be a useless rabble without him. But his menace made them into an effective fighting force. The point was well illustrated when Cross saw Redmond kill two of his own men when they hesitated.

  The Captain understood the message the convict had bellowed after killing Driscoll, even if he could not hear the actual words. Fate had decided it was time to repay Cross for the sins of his past. Yet the Captain was not prepared to show him any sign of the fear strangling his guts.