The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (29 page)

The third woman screamed again, although it was doubtful if Timmons even heard. The sand filled cosh swung once, but the surgeon's wife ducked and it found empty air. The weapon even hurt him slightly as it rebounded off his own leg, and then he was properly angry. He took another stroke, this time hitting Mrs Manning soundly on the shoulder. She tried to back away as he moved forward, but fell instead, and he towered over her in a most pleasing manner. She was whimpering, and doing so because of his presence; the knowledge empowered him further, and he was just deciding to take longer over this one when an unexpected blow sent him to one side, and Timmons went sprawling into the nearby undergrowth.

It was the black man; he had returned, but was unarmed. Despite the shock, Timmons knew this need not present a problem: the man had clearly been running, and was probably nothing more than a slave anyway. He pushed himself up from the ground, regained his feet and swaggered slightly as he advanced, swinging the cosh threateningly.

One of the women screamed again, and it was just the distraction Timmons was looking for. The black man glanced to one side and Timmons launched himself into the attack, whipping the cosh sideways as he did and landing a pearler to the side of the servant's skull. The man reeled, and blood started to flow down his dark, glistening face, although Timmons was only just getting into his stride. Another strike, downwards this time, and carrying with it all his seaman's strength. The blow was dodged, and landed ineffectually on the servant's heavily muscled arm. Timmons drew breath. He had known a pause would give his opponent the chance to move, but was still surprised when he did so with such speed.

The fist was thrown with confidence and expertise. It caught Timmons on the corner of his jaw, hardly a prime hit but the pain and shock were enough to disorientate him for a second. He shook his head, then assessed the situation afresh. This was to be no walkover, but Timmons had fought harder men in the past and was certainly no coward.

He raised the cosh once more, but before any strike could be made a huge black hand shot forward and caught his wrist, encompassing it and closing with enormous strength. One hard shake and the weapon fell from Timmons' grasp slipping down his arm on the lanyard. Timmons grunted with pain; his wrist was locked firm in the servant's grip and, being so, he could not manoeuvre in any way. Then he found himself being dragged forward and could see the look of victory breaking out on the other man's face. The black man was smiling; his teeth gleamed white against dark lips and Timmons knew then that it had all come to an end. He was finally beaten.

––––––––

T
immons would hang; Colonel Robson had been in no doubt of that. Banks skipped down the steps of Government House and strode purposefully across the empty parade ground, his mind determinedly set upon the most recent interview, and not that at the hospital which had preceded it.

It seemed that, by repeated charters from the Crown of Great Britain, the island had been assigned in perpetual property to the East India Company as Lords’ Proprietors. With the supreme and executive authority vested in the governor, or anyone acting in that position so, even without the meeting of the full council, Robson had every right to exercise the powers of captain-general. Alternatively, should a civil route be chosen, there were magistrates a-plenty on the island, and the evidence would seem to be as conclusive as it was damning.

Of course Banks could dispute the matter, claim Timmons was a member of
Scylla
's crew, and entitled to trial by court martial. There was also the unexplained murder of the other night; what was his name Michael? No, Mitchell, Banks reminded himself as he made for the drawbridge that spanned an inner moat. If Timmons was involved, as seemed overwhelmingly likely, it was only right and just that he should be punished.

But then what was right and just? The attempted murder of two women was more than enough to see the man hanged; adding a killing to the charge would do little good to the first victim whilst not changing the final outcome a jot. And as far as Banks was aware, the lower deck had accepted Mitchell's death as just another hazard of shore leave; it was even possible that actual harm might be caused if one of their own were shown to be responsible. Besides, if he really was determined to summon a court martial, such a route would necessitate the presence of at least five Royal Naval post captains. In almost any other British port that would hardly present a problem, but this was St Helena, and at that moment it was doubtful if so many could be found within a thousand miles. Timmons might be taken back to England, of course, but did he really want a man waiting to meet the noose as a passenger?

No, let them use their rope – Banks was more than happy to turn Sarah's assailant over to the HEIC. He had already been impressed by the Company's speed and efficiency in other matters, and was sure they would put the miserable little man to death in just such a way. Robson seemed confident that the thing could be done within the month, and if it were not; if some lenient magistrate took pity, or the prisoner's friend brought up a strange and unusual defence, Banks would just have to bend some rules and see the matter through another way.

With the realisation that Timmons' future was effectively settled, he finally slowed what had been a frantic pace, and allowed his mind to rest on a far more attractive subject. The military physician had pronounced the baby safe, and Sarah's wound to be superficial, with only rest and time required to produce a full recovery. Banks was doubtful of the man's experience in dealing with perinatal problems, or those of women in general, come to that but, as an HEIC Major there was no one more senior to hand, and he did not feel inclined to challenge what had been an excellent prognosis. The pleasant memory caused him to slow his step further, and then stop completely as he allowed it to be replaced by yet another.

He especially recalled Sarah's eyes, the moment they had let him into the room. Soft and strangely trusting, like a young animal's, they were one of the things he had noticed at their first meeting, and again when
Scylla
returned from her deployment with the Channel Fleet. He supposed it odd that, after only a little time together, their beauty seemed to fade, or at least lost some if its impact. The eyes were still lovely of course: a true insight into the soul of the woman he loved, but that initial surge of attraction definitely dulled after a short time.

But it had been back that afternoon: seeing Sarah so small, so vulnerable and so totally dependant on others, it was as if all the emotion he had ever felt for her was delivered in one mighty dose. She must have experienced something similar and wept as freely as any wounded child. And when he took her cold hand in his and whispered those foolish reassurances it had been hard for him to maintain the expected persona of a senior post captain.

Hard, but not impossible; Henry Booker's daughter had been there, as well as Kate Manning; little would have been served if he had followed his wife's example, and he especially wanted to retain his resolve in front of the surgeon's wife. And so he had taken a grip and forced his mind towards dealing with Sarah's future, just as he had with that of her assailant.

She was to be transferred to Henry Booker's country residence. The two women seemed keen to rescue her from the more masculine atmosphere of the military hospital, and Banks supposed it was good they were both so determined to take total responsibility, even if he was left feeling slightly out of place. The surgeon's wife had also been bruised by Timmons, but was carrying her wound lightly, like the stoical creature she had become. He had been told in no uncertain terms that, besides rest, what Sarah most needed was to be back in England. The first would be provided, and he grudgingly accepted that the second was totally in his own hands.

The thought spurred him into action once more, and soon he felt the chill of a faint breeze as he rounded the sea wall and stepped onto the wharf. Ahead, he could see his ship; comfortably at anchor now, with a sound enough hull and bright new paint to her topsides. There remained much to be done but the sight of her, almost unexpectedly solid, forced him to an acceptance that he had been postponing for far too long.

She was all but ready for sea, and Banks knew there was little preventing him from meeting with the French once more. They should finish lading on the morrow and could set up topmasts; the boatswain had asked for a further day to replace essential cordage: then he could set sail whenever he wished.

Both enemy warships had been spotted on several occasions about the island, and the packet, which presumably still held Lady Hatcher, had also been in company twice. Banks had no idea how to face them; St Helena rarely experienced unusual weather conditions, and the only shipping due was that vulnerable first convoy in from the East. He knew it might be expected in under a month and so had that time: three, maybe four weeks, to work his crew back into shape, and bring the enemy to battle. They must be sunk, taken or at least damaged enough to make future interference with the trade ships impossible, and if
Scylla
, undeniably the weaker force, were destroyed in the process, then so be it, but the attempt still must be made.

However, seeing her now in the late afternoon sunshine he felt there was more than a chance they would succeed. No captain can be confident of his command when she is little more than a wreck and dependant on the goodwill of another service for her survival. But now she was whole: a viable fighting force and, even though inferior to the enemy she was to meet, he felt the common pride that any worthwhile master has in his charge. She had never disappointed him in the past, and he felt she would not do so this time. When – if – she made it back to England,
Scylla
was due for a major refit, and it was unlikely he would ever sail in her again, but the frigate had carried him thus far, and he knew, just as certainly, she could take him a little way further.

Banks' only concern was for his own performance. In the past few months so much had happened to wear him down, that he wondered if he were equal to her, and could actually raise the fire inside to win another battle. He told himself that Sarah alone was a strong enough reason, and nothing could be done to truly help her until the French were defeated, but still he could not summon sufficient energy and the actual will to fight was strangely missing. But of one thing he was certain; no purpose would be served by remaining on St Helena. The island might appear a small oasis of order and strength but in reality it offered nothing more than a claustrophobic and unnatural existence and, for probably the first time since arriving, he longed to be free of it.

* * *

T
he peacefulness of Julia's private rooms was in distinct contrast to both their worlds for the past few days. King had spent much of his time engaged in
Scyll
a's final lading, while she was still in a state of shock following the incident at White Ram Hill. The journey back had been dreadful; the captain's wife slept fitfully but Julia had been very much awake while that awful man just sat there staring with those powerful eyes that seemed to look right through and to her inner self. And even before then, there had been the shock of discovering King to be married. It was something that dwindled into insignificance following the rest of the day's adventures, but once she was back safe and in her home Julia had sent for him and now, as he sat in front of her, the importance returned.

He seemed to have sensed something in her manner, and came right to the point. The two of them were ideally suited – it was apparently something King had decided upon at their first meeting and, now that they had spent some time together, he felt no need to reconsider.

Such arrogance would normally have simply annoyed her, but for some reason Julia found herself being carried along for at least part of the way. On the face of it what he offered was what she claimed to want, and even when reminded of his marital status, there still remained a faint longing that could not be denied. But the reality of his marriage remained, and with a strength that took them both by surprise, she had coldly asked him how his wife might react to such a situation.

To be fair, he had not attempted to deny her existence. Neither did he try to explain how easily a separation might be obtained, or even asked if there was not another way that they could be together. And finally his lost expression, coupled with the tenderness she could not help but feel, softened her approach and she found herself telling him far more than she had originally intended.

But King, it seemed, did not wish to hear more and, even though her presence was still compulsive, he hardly listened. His fragile world, so hastily erected, was lying in tatters about his feet. Part of him was keen to leave, to quit the room, the house if he could; return to
Scylla
and never set foot on St Helena again. Part of him, but not all, and he stayed.

“I recall what I said before, about never leaving the island,” she was saying. “There is something else you should know.”

He waited.

“My mother was born and died here – oh I know she spent some time in India; papa took her there after they were married, but it was only for a few years. In those days he was a Company factor; they met when his ship stopped to victual, and were married within the month.”

“A quick courtship,” King murmured, although at that moment he cared little for her genealogy.

“Yes, I gather it was just after she turned down another in marriage, though mother died before I was old enough to ask, and it is not the sort of thing I could ever discuss with papa. Those about at the time have told me more, and I guessed the rest. Almost as soon as they were wed, the two of them continued on to his house in Bombay with the next convoy, and that was where I was born.”

King supposed her story was leading somewhere, but he had other concerns on his mind at that moment. Then she began again.