The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (21 page)

“Lemonade,” Julia said, taking hers, and sniffing appreciatively. “We have been blessed with a good harvest this year,” she said. “And not just lemons, all seem to have done especially well.”

“I noticed a lot of fruit trees on the way up,” Caulfield said. “It looks so much like England.”

“So I understand,” Julia replied. “Though strangely St Helena is not quite as hot, nor as cold as home. We get two crops of apples a year, and some are truly enormous. And there are the blackberries of course; they were introduced a few years ago, but have grown to be rather a nuisance. I understand that peaches used to be quite prolific as well – so much so that people would feed them to their pigs. But of late they have started to be attacked by some sort of fly. Now they are hard to grow, but delicious when they do.”

King was struck again by the whiteness of her teeth when she spoke; in fact all the usual signs were there and, when combined with such magical and slightly surreal surroundings, he knew for sure that he was firmly on the downward path to destruction.

“There is a hen and ham pie,” she said, taking a proffered plate from the older servant. “Thomas, will I cut you a slice?”

King accepted readily, although his reaction would have been identical if she were offering something far less appealing. He sipped at his lemonade, and looked about. The scenery had changed once more. Caulfield was right, it had appeared very English on the ascent, but now exotic trees and wild ferns had taken over from the traditional oak and willow; there were brightly coloured shrubs that King could not begin to identify, as well as long spindly trees almost bereft of foliage. He knew that what Julia had blithely referred to as mountains were in reality hardly more than steep and ambitious hills, but even they had a distinct shape that marked them out. Some large houses were set precariously into their steep slopes; apparently summer residences for Company officers and factors. And at other times he had noticed small idyllic cottages surrounded by their own land and seemingly intent on enticing him with a magical way of life, far removed from the normal stresses of fighting a war. Even the insects that buzzed, unseen, in the undergrowth added something bewitching to the place, and the contrasting scent of gum tree and fresh heather rounded off the impression nicely. It was all so very different from the bleak and barren prospect they first sighted from the sea.

“We only should take half an hour,” Julia prompted, and King hurriedly paid attention to the untouched pie on his plate. Jackson had finished his, and accepted another chunk, which he consumed with a lad's appetite, although Caulfield seemed strangely reticent, and hardly nibbled at his piece.

“Could you stand an impertinent question?” the first lieutenant asked while the remains of their meal were being taken away by the women, and the manservant had gone to fetch the horses.

“That rather depends on the subject, Mr Caulfield,” Julia replied, suddenly coltish.

“It is the servants,” the older man, now serious, continued. “They are slaves I assume?”

“They are,” Julia agreed. “Though at times I have to remind myself of the fact.” She looked more closely at his face. “You are shocked, clearly.”

“Not shocked so very greatly,” Caulfield confessed; he had already found himself growing fond of Miss Booker, and had no wish to crush her in argument. “I have come across such labour before, and they seem far more content than others; certainly those I met on the American plantations.”

“That is probably the case,” Julia reflected. “Most have lived on this island for several generations and I think are as satisfied as any in domestic service. They are well fed and provided for, with a full day off in every seven – more than their counterparts in England receive, I am told.”

“Their counterparts are not slaves,” Caulfield reminded her gently.

“Maybe not,” Julia agreed. “But all must work: surely there is little difference how they were recruited?”

“The difference is choice,” Caulfield persisted.

“And you are saying that an English servant has choice? Why yes, I suppose you are correct – they can choose whether they work, or starve.”

There was polite laughter from Jackson and King, but Julia was well into her stride.

“None of our people are forced into labour; we are not inclined to use the whips or battens common in some countries, and if they were severely unhappy I am certain papa would organise a transfer, or even return them to their home country, assuming one could be identified. But even then they might not find life any the better; there are few of us who can survive for long without some form of labour and for most their home might turn out to be as foreign to them as England would be to me.”

“But slavery is morally wrong,” Caulfield said, with rather less conviction.

“Oh, I entirely agree with you,” Julia replied instantly. “And things are changing, on St Helena, at least: there have been no new slaves imported for almost ten years – no other British settlement can say the same. My father pays a small allowance to those he employs, and they receive both medical attention and accommodation. Most marry and raise families, and if it is that their children grow up to work in the same manner, is that so very different from the system of family trades common throughout Europe and the Americas?”

Caulfield nodded his head gravely. “What you say is true, and this is not a perfect world, but still I cannot justify abducting a man and forcing him into labour: it is against the laws of nature.”

“Indeed?” she asked innocently. “And are there other Englishmen who share your views?”

“A growing band,” he confirmed with obvious pride. “I do not say we will be successful straight away; but in time the world shall come to see and acknowledge the error.”

“So a man should not be forced to work, even though it might ultimately mean his survival?” She said the words slowly, as if they were being learned and committed to memory. King grew suspicious, but Caulfield clearly sensed he was on the edge of a conversion.

“I believe it is his right to choose,” he said emphatically. “And no one should do so for him.”

“And you would never be a party to such a thing?” she enquired.

“On the contrary, I should do all I could to prevent it,” Caulfield confirmed, with perhaps slightly too much self-righteousness.

“Well then, I must express my surprise,” Julia said after a short pause. “For, as far as I was aware, the Royal Navy is still abducting men, and forcing them to sea. I wonder that you have none on board your own ship, Mr Caulfield?”

Jackson coughed, King snorted, but the first lieutenant only went a slightly darker shade of pink. “You are talking about pressing a man for the king's service,” he objected. “That is a different matter entirely.”

“Why so?” Julia asked. “Because someone in government has decided it to be the case? I see no variation; indeed your method of slavery is surely far worse. A victim of the press gang is forced to work, if he does not he will certainly be beaten – should he try to escape he may very well be hanged and, even if he accepts his fate, the chances of his dying either of disease, drowning, or in battle are extremely high.”

“It is not the same,” Caulfield said, shaking his head sadly.

“Maybe not, Michael,” Julia agreed in a softer tone. “But there is a similarity, you must allow?”

The horses were ready, and even though he was still uncomfortably stiff, King rose first and made for them. Julia's words had impressed him in several ways. There were certain unwritten rules of social etiquette and one effectively forbade any woman from arguing with a man. Exceptions occurred, of course: intimate friends or close relatives might surely bicker, although King had been brought up expecting a husband's word to always be respected. But Julia had not only argued, she had done so well: setting the first lieutenant up perfectly, and then delivering the
coup de grâce
with all the skill of a seasoned debater. Perhaps it was the isolated world that she lived in? Maybe a lack of polite society meant that she was one of those modern females who took little heed of protocol, and actually had the effrontery to make up her own mind? Kate was one but even she, King decided, would not be so direct with her thoughts, nor as clinical in the way they were presented. It was a decidedly radical stance in what was, after all, a man's world, and one he was not sure if he approved of. But at least he could discount any threat of Caulfield becoming a potential suitor. That possibility had now been firmly removed.

* * *

I
t would be bearding the lioness in her den and may well come to nothing, but when Booker suggested visiting Lady Hatcher at the governor's country home, Banks supposed the idea had some merit. But it was not a visit he was prepared to undertake alone, not through any physical or psychological fear of the woman, but nearly three months cooped up in a ship of war had taught him a little of her ways. Throughout that time she had never been one to hold her tongue and, if she were to repeat any of the threats or allegations made towards the end of their voyage, he would rather she did so in the presence of a witness.

Booker was the ideal person, being not only a Company man but, having no prior knowledge of either party before their arrival on the island, might legitimately be presented as neutral, should he be called to a court of enquiry. The man was not altogether keen however, causing Banks to wonder if he were concerned about Hatcher's political power reaching even such a far flung outpost as St Helena. But then, as the suggestion had originally come from him, he could hardly refuse.

“You are late,” an obviously rejuvenated Lady Hatcher informed them upon their being shown into her presence. Not only was she wearing different, and far smarter clothes, but her skin and hair had been attended to. The face appeared younger, and it was even conceivable that she had lost a little weight, but there was no disguising the cold tone in her voice, or the hard direct stare that was used without restraint. Banks had privately hoped a few days on the island might have mollified the woman. She had gone through the trauma of losing her husband, after all, and
Scylla
was no palace; some time away, enjoying magnificent countryside, eating good, fresh food and taking reasonable exercise might have made a change, although that was clearly not to be.

“My fault entirely,” Booker said, with nonchalant gallantry. “The government coach made good time, but we were inconvenienced by a flock of sheep that blocked the road by Steer's Common and proved unusually stubborn.”

If Booker had hoped the tale and his telling of it would lighten the atmosphere or even induce humour he was mistaken, and hurriedly cleared his throat in reaction to the woman's set stare.

“Well, if we have to meet we can do so in the library,” she said, leading them into a side room where a uniformed man stood up from his seat. “You both know my late husband's nephew, I believe.” Morris nodded briefly at Booker, but declined to acknowledge Banks in any way, and no handshakes were exchanged. “I assumed you would be bringing a witness, Sir Richard, so there will be no objections to Duncan being present; and you won't be requiring tea, I am certain.”

“I am here in my capacity of host, Lady Hatcher,” Booker said smoothly. “It is clear that there has been some disagreement between you and Captain Banks; if I, and Major Morris, can sort matters out, then that would be much for the better. And I am sure that is what we all would like,” he added, with slightly more emphasis.

“I fail to see how my late husband's death, caused as it was by this fellow's incompetence, can be talked away with a few sugared phrases,” Lady Hatcher snapped.

“I gave orders and made arrangements for your entourage to be kept in safety,” Banks said firmly. “That your husband ignored them was his concern, not mine.”

“Well frankly, sir, I am surprised that you should have chosen to bring the enemy to action at all,” Morris said. “Your ship was charged with despatches, was she not? Does that mean for nothing in the Royal Navy? The Dear knows that frigate captains are renowned for their inability to turn down a fight, but surely carrying such important passengers should have persuaded you to be slightly less foolhardy?”

Banks had not expected such an outright assault, but was mildly relieved that the young officer's accusations could be so easily wiped aside.

“All captains, be they frigate or otherwise, are allowed a degree of discretion, as far as carrying despatches are concerned,” he said stiffly. “And, although such a thing was more out of courtesy than obligation, I did approach the governor before engaging the enemy, and he gave his full and wholehearted support.”

“And where did such an interview take place?” Morris asked.

“In the governor's cabin,” Banks replied, as a chill feeling of concern began to make itself known within his stomach. “Lady Hatcher was also present, as was her husband's manservant.”

“I can recall no such meeting,” the woman replied haughtily. “And you will have a good deal of trouble finding anyone else to back up your story; both Terrance and Malcolm are now dead: died upon your ship, and while in your care.”

In the face of barefaced lying Banks found himself taken aback. He felt his face grow hot and went to speak, but on catching the eye of Lady Hatcher, thought better of it. Fortunately Booker guessed the problem, and stepped in.

“If there is any discrepancy here I am sure it can be disregarded,” he said. “As Captain Banks has made clear, he was under no obligation to speak with your late husband in the first place.”

“Well I would say that is for a court of enquiry to decide,” Morris said with an air of finality. “You can bandy words and rules about as much as you wish, but the Board of Directors may not be so easily hoodwinked.”

“There is no attempt to hoodwink, Major Morris,” Booker retorted. “Indeed I would caution you against making such an accusation.” The young man swallowed, but said nothing. “But we had hoped that such formalities might be avoided. Indeed it would seem to be a waste of Company time and effort. And to suggest that the Board of Directors are to be involved can only...”