Taking his own mug, the Major sipped, feeling the rum spreading its warmth through his travel weary body. “All quiet for the moment, I think. The Union is not popular, of course, and many resent the loss of our own parliament, corrupt though it was.” Putting the mug on the table, Major Heron fished for his tobacco pouch and pipe. “I’ve yet to engage a room. Perhaps you can point me in the direction of a suitable place.” Offering his tobacco pouch, he added, “I suspect this place will not want for the custom of a mere Irish farmer.”
Captain Blackwood laughed. “Full to the gunwales with admirals usually, but you may be fortunate.” He signalled the publican. “Leave it to me. You’ve not eaten? Then we may dine here.” He turned as the publican approached. “My friend and I wish to take dinner, and Major Heron has need of a room for the night. Have you one available?”
Smiling, the publican nodded. “’Tis roast lamb, sir, wi’ a game pie an’ taties beside.” Weighing up the Major, he added, “An’ we’ve t’ one room, sor. Capting Duff jus’ left.”
“I’ll take it,” the Major said. “I’ve my portmanteau here, if you’ll give me the direction later.”
The meal was a good one, and the conversation inevitably turned to the battle in which Harry and Ferghal had vanished. Stretching his leg beside the table as he eased his chair back, Captain Blackwood swirled the brandy in his glass. “It really was the damnedest thing. There was no trace of them whatsoever—or the gun and its equipment.”
“So the Reverend Mr Bentley explained.” Major Heron frowned. “He’d made a drawing of exactly where each of the men stood, and opines that Harry, Ferghal O’Connor, and the boy—Daniel Gunn?—were all stood close to the carriage.”
“Exactly so. The extraordinary thing is that it attempted to take the gun captain but, if his account is not pure fancy, it drew him in then released him, flinging him across the deck.”
“Strange indeed.” Major Heron stared into his glass. The warmth of the dining room and the hum of conversation put him at ease, an effect that was accentuated by the wine and now a glass of brandy. Formality was put aside long since, and acquaintance and fellowship became friendship. “I shall be frank with you, Robert. I do not believe Harry or the others are dead.”
“So I infer, James, but I cannot for the life of me see how they can be alive. I saw with my own eyes the destruction of the French ship and the damage the weapon caused to my own. You have spoken to Mr Bentley. Did he tell of our attempt to open the fiendish thing?” He caught his companion’s nod then leaned close and said, “I am convinced they were not inside it, and the shriek put me in mind of the banshee—human it most certainly was not.” He took a sip of his brandy. “Even had they gone overside, there would be little to sustain them had they found the means to remain afloat.”
“I know. I have seen the charts held by the East India Company, and spoken at length with ship masters familiar with those waters.” James Heron hesitated. “Yet I am plagued by a vision—one which we, in my family, share. It has never before shown false, though I cannot see how it is possible, nor do I have any idea where they are if they live.”
Silence descended between them. Robert Blackwood swirled his goblet idly, staring into some distant private vision while his visitor remained wrapped in his own thoughts. After several long moments, he said, “Aye, I can see that, James, and I believe you may well have the right of it. So much about this makes no sense at all. In my entire naval career, I have never....” Captain Blackwood sighed, took another sip and set his glass down then spent a few moments shifting its position on the table. The Major waited. It was clear that this was weighing heavily on the Captain’s mind as well.
“Did Mr Bentley tell you his theory of some exchange occurring?” the Captain finally said.
“He did, and though I do not understand the half of his explanation, I can see the logic of it.”
Chuckling, the Captain nodded. “Quite so.” He hesitated. “I do not know why, but I believe he is right, and I believe that you may be as well. As you know, it is our custom to auction the possessions of dead seamen and officers, and to send the proceeds to their families. For reasons I cannot explain, I felt an urgency to purchase your son’s chest and its contents. Some of O’Connor’s effects have also fallen into my possession, including a rather fine model of my ship. If you’ve a desire to have them, they are yours.”
Touched, James Heron paused. “You are too generous, but I thank you. I shall arrange for their collection if you wish.”
“No, my friend. Tomorrow I shall send a boat for you, and you may see for yourself the place your son stood. Then we may make arrangements for the rest.” Straightening in his chair, he placed the glass on the table. “And now I must return to my ship. My coxswain will have my gig at the steps by the Masting House at ten o’clock if that suits.”
Rising with the Captain, the Major nodded. “That will suit very well, Robert. And thank you for your forbearance. Though I should not say this, Harry was the light of our hearts—always up to some new start, and often too bold for his own good.” The Major’s voice caught in his throat.
Robert Blackwood reached for the grieving father’s shoulder and clasped it in a gesture of warmth and solidarity. “He was bold enough to be sure, and invaluable when I had need of someone quick witted and observant.” He laughed. “A diplomat as well, young Harry—he made a good impression on the Sultan in Muscat. Did he write of his part in defending one of the prison ships we escorted to Botany Bay against the Barbary corsairs?” Seeing the surprise in the Major’s face, the Captain said, “I shall save that story for the morrow then. The publican will give you directions to the Masting House, and my coxswain will make himself known to you.”
They stood and shook hands, and the Captain departed. Seating himself again, James Heron drained his glass then found his way upstairs to the room he’d secured for the night. Sleep did not come immediately though his body demanded it.
“MAJOR HERON?” THE BURLY SEAMAN TOUCHED his enamelled hat, the name Spartan emblazoned on the front of the crown. “Captain Blackwood sent me, sir. Bridger, Captain’s coxswain.”
“I am he.” The Major’s automatic salute changed at the last moment to a raising of his hat as he returned the greeting. He smiled. “You knew my son?”
Stepping aside to show the way to the boat, the coxswain grinned. “Aye, sir, an’ young Fergie. A right good pair they made. T’ one ne’er far from t’ other when there were trouble.” Reaching the steps, he moved ahead. “I’ll go first, sir, if you please.” Without waiting for a response, he descended the stairs and stepped nimbly into the sternsheets of the boat. A young midshipman stood and touched his hat to the Major as the coxswain barked, “Eyes in t’ boat!”
Descending the stairs, the Major watched his moment and stepped down into the place signalled surreptitiously by the coxswain. Greeting the small midshipman who looked even younger than he remembered his own son, he took his place as the youngster tried to look as if he was in command. He’d barely seated himself when the coxswain asked, “Permission ter proceed, Mr Manley?”
“What...?” An expression of momentary panic crossed the youngster’s face before he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders and nodded. “Proceed, Mr Bridger.”
The Major hid his smile as the big seaman barked a series of orders and the boat was set in motion, its place already being filled by another at the steps. He turned to the small midshipman. “Your first ship, Mr Manley?”
The boy nodded, swelling with pride. “Yes, sir, I mean, aye, sir.” He shot a glance at the stroke oarsman carefully keeping his face blank, though his eyes showed amusement. “I joined the Spartan this week, sir.”
“I see.” The Major nodded gravely. “I expect you’ve learned a great deal already. It is a good career, but a hard life, I think.” He smiled at the boy, watching the crowded ships, the boats weaving among them and the activity along the quays.
Torn between t
rying to look grown up and his uncertainty at the responsibility thrust upon him, the midshipman settled for a nod. “Yes...I mean aye, Major.”
Taking pity, the Major smiled. “Ye’ll do, Mr Manley. We all have to learn, and I think you’ve some good teachers about you.” Lowering his voice, he leaned closer and added conspiratorially, “Watch how things are done, ask when you’re not certain, and remember: a good officer leads by example. You win respect. It is not given lightly.”
The coxswain cleared his throat as a hail from the anchored ship drifted down to them. “Ye needs ter reply, Mr Manley, like I tol’ yer.” He said it so softly that only the mid and the Major heard it.
Men working on painting the great beakhead paused as the boat neared the anchored ship, her oars dipping and rising in perfect rhythm. Looking up, the Major took in the fierce figurehead, supposedly the Spartan King Leonidas, so well remembered from Harry’s sketches and paintings.
The young midshipman stood, cupped his hands to his mouth, and drew a deep breath. He called, “Spartan! Major Heron to visit the Captain!” The effect was rather spoiled by his voice cracking on the last word, and he resumed his seat blushing furiously.
Suddenly the black and pale yellow hull loomed above them, and the boat rounded under the stern. Glancing up, the Major felt his throat catch as he read the name Spartan emblazoned beneath the lower tier of stern windows. He watched as one set of oars was backed and the boat seemed to turn on a pivot, and then the oars rose in a neat double row as the coxswain barked the order. The bowman swung his boathook, caught the main chains, and the coxswain hooked on to an eye bolt aft.
“After you, sir.” The midshipman stood.
Gathering his coat, the Major prepared to scramble onto the battens leading to the entry point. Nodding to the midshipman but catching the coxswain’s eye, he said, “Thank you, Mr Manley. No doubt we shall see one another again later.” Turning, he gripped the trailing lines, watched his moment, and stepped quickly onto the lowest batten.
Behind him the coxswain smiled. Easy to see where the son got his manners, he thought. Young Manley had a lot to learn, but the Major was probably right. He’d do just fine.
DUCKING BENEATH THE DECK BEAMS, James Heron marvelled at the cramped space. Heavy guns lined the sides, their tackles secured, the rammers, wad hooks and other accoutrements all stowed neatly overhead, with shot garlands stowed on their brass monkeys near the guns. The hammock bars overhead gave an indication of how cramped the sleeping arrangements were, and the stowed tables and benches provided an insight into the living conditions of the men better than any description could have done.
“The gun has been replaced, of course.” Captain Blackwood indicated the massive thirty-two pounder’s breech. “Harry would have been standing there.” He pointed to a new iron ringbolt, one of four used to secure the gun in place when not in action. “O’Connor would have been next to him, and I understand the powder monkey Danny was stood this side of him.”
Noting the renewed planking around the bolt and several other places where repairs had evidently been necessary, James Heron nodded. “I see why you consider it unlikely they could have gone overboard. Where was the man who claimed it attempted to take him as well?”
“He was stood where I am.” Indicating the lead cover on the firing lock on the breech, Captain Blackwood continued. “It is the practice of many gun captains to stand so.” He adopted a position bent forward so he appeared to be sighting along the barrel. “Wright is a conscientious gun captain. He stood here ready to step clear once he tugged the firing lanyard.”
Nodding, the Major looked around him. “I understand all the damage centres on this position. Mr Bentley said it was as if some huge force had been unleashed.” He moved to follow his host to the companionway.
“A good description. Several planks were sprung, frames cracked, and even this part of the main mast was damaged.” He led the way up to the main deck and then to the quarterdeck past the great double wheel and its binnacle and then under the poop to his great cabin. Waving his guest to a chair, he said, “A glass of hock perhaps, James?”
“Thank you, Robert.” Letting his gaze take in the furnishings of the cabin, the Major reflected on the contrast between this, the gunroom beneath the lower gundeck and the accommodation for the six hundred seamen needed to man a ship of this size. “I trust I have not inconvenienced you with my questions, and my desire to see where Harry lived.”
“Not at all, my friend.” Handing over a glass of pale amber wine, he raised his own in a gesture of salute. “I would that others were as conscientious of their sons’ welfare.” Taking a sip of his wine, he seated himself. “I mentioned yesterday that I had acquired Harry’s sea chest, and I discovered on my return to the ship that I had been most remiss, for his journal is still within it. You should have that at least, all of it, and the model ship O’Connor was creating, if you wish.”
“You are very generous, Robert. Allow me to at least reimburse you the prices you have paid for these items.”
“I would not hear of it, James. I would that I could at least give you hope that your feelings are correct about Harry being alive still. I confess I wish to believe that myself, but you have seen....”
“And yet, despite what I see and what I have been told, I am persuaded that something is at play here that we cannot know or understand.” Draining his glass, James Heron placed it on the table and said, “Had they been killed by this mysterious weapon, there must surely have been some indication of their demise—a limb, or blood perhaps, even some scrap of a coat or a shirt. There is nothing. Then there is the strange business of how they were seen within the weapon, as if it were transparent, and yet when you examined it, it was solid through and through.”
“As you say, James. This is why I cannot say they are dead, nor yet that they are not.”
“Then I must continue to trust my visions, I suppose.” The Major smiled. “I may never see my son again in this life, yet I know he lives somewhere.” He stood. “Robert, I thank you for your kindness and generosity. If you would be so good as to have someone hail a boat....”
Standing, the Captain smiled. “Nonsense.” He raised his voice slightly. “Pass the word for my coxswain.” He was still tugging his coat into place when the thump of the sentry’s musket preceded a tap at the door. “Come, Bridger.” He waited until the coxswain entered. “Call my gig, Jack, and have Mr Heron’s chest taken ashore to the Major’s inn—still at the Garter?”
The Major nodded. “I reserved the room for another night and will take the Mail coach to London tomorrow.” Pulling on his coat, he added, “It is time I returned to Scrabo.”
Chapter 19
Taking Action
RAPPING THE TABLE FOR SILENCE, Sub-Lieutenant Trelawney waited for the conversation to die down. “Now that I have your attention, I have some news. As of our entry into this system, we’ve become a flagship. Our Captain is now Commodore First Class, Commander Grenville assumes command as Flag Captain and Commander Curran takes over as Executive Commander.”
A murmur of excitement ran round the table. “So it’s a fight then? I saw a message earlier saying we’re to be joined by two landing ship docks and their escorts.”
“Correct. Colonel Kernan is assuming the rank of Brigadier with immediate effect and taking command of all landing forces.” He allowed the buzz of exclamations to subside. “You will get a full briefing in the next few hours, but it looks as if there will be resistance from the people who’ve taken over the colony on the planet Pangaea. Our job is to provide support and prevent interference from anyone getting in the way of the Royal Marines.”
AFTER SKIMMING THE OUTER EDGES OF THE SYSTEM, the ships made several brief transits to enter a geosynchronous orbit. At the third of these, in a location just outside a vast asteroid belt, the Commodore ordered, “Launch our defence screen.”
“Defence screen to launch, sir.” The ComsRate passed the order to t
he ship’s Strike Wing Commander. “Strike wing launching, sir. Commander Gray requests permission to investigate the satellite detected in the asteroid cluster, sir.”
“Permission granted. Warn them to approach with caution. It may be equipped to defend itself.” His eyes trained on the display, the Commodore watched the swarms of small strike craft as they emerged from the Bellerophon and the Sydney to join those from the Vanguard in an expanding flight pattern. One group of six broke away and followed a trajectory toward a cluster of large asteroids.
“GREEN LEADER TO FLIGHT CONTROL—target was a large surveillance satellite. It relayed a hypercoms transmission as soon as we approached. Then it detonated. We’ve got debris all over the place.”
“Understood, Green Leader. Remain where you are. A recovery barge is on its way. Something in that lot is still active, and we want it.”
Commander Gray turned to Lieutenant Commander Karl Pedersen. “Your brother seems to have a knack for blowing things up. You Viking types just have to wreck everything, don’t you?”
“It runs in the family!” Karl laughed, and his brother, listening from the asteroid cluster, added, “Bjorn’s always liked to make things go boom.”
“I have to admit that one was a good boom. At least most of the debris now shows on the scanners.” He frowned at the screens. “But there’s one bit just there—that only comes up on the passive scans. That’s the bit we want. Contact barge Victor-Six-Six-Golf-Papa and point them at it.”
WHEN HE APPEARED IN THE HOLO-PROJECTION, it was obvious that Carl Kodiak, Governor of Pangaea, was flustered. James Heron and his command team watched him blustering under the stony gaze of the three “advisers” who said little, but whose postures said a lot. The Governor was clearly, in the Captain’s view, a lowly politician who had used his commercial and political connections to ascend to a position of power, only to find that the real power lay with those pulling the strings, the ones who also controlled the flow of money.
Harry Heron: Into the Unknown Page 19