TimeStorm

by Steve Harrison

  Cross laughed and immediately had a coughing fit. Pain gripped his chest, but he still managed to gasp an answer. “Watkins carries a grudge against me and his word is of no consequence. His arrogance and conceit distort the truth. If you met with him, you know what I mean.”

  Though his face was a mask, Marsh’s eyes registered agreement. But he was clearly under considerable pressure. Cross continued. “The man was not even on deck when the convicts broke free. They escaped because they are incorrigible criminals who will not accept their rightful punishment. My men merely defended themselves as best they could in the circumstances.”

  “Some fucking defending!” scoffed Marsh. He walked round the desk and stood over the Captain. “It’s all fucking bullshit, Cross. What were you doing on the harbour? We’ve established you are not part of any First Fleet re-enactment. And your precious fucking Marlin isn’t even registered. Anywhere! So who are you, for Christ’s sake!”

  Cross sighed painfully, and shook his head as though dealing with a wayward child. “I have told you everything, repeatedly. If your tiny intellect is incapable of grasping what I have told you, I suggest you convey me immediately to the Governor. I shall personally see to it that you are flogged for your treatment of my men and myself.”

  Becoming enraged, Marsh pulled back his arm in a striking gesture. He managed to control himself in time, but Cross had already recoiled from the blow and fell from his chair and struck his head on the concrete floor. Barely conscious, he felt himself being lifted back to the chair.

  “What you want is irrelevant, Cross,” said Marsh. “I want to hear everything again. From the beginning.”

  The words sounded distant. Cross was terribly tired and his head throbbed like the devil. He tried to look at Marsh and found he could see little more than a blur. He did not know how much more he could take.

  REDMOND

  “Talk!” demanded Redmond impatiently, pulling Lockwood through the cafe door. The smartly dressed convict looked grim, so Redmond stood between him and the convicts. Hand joined them.

  “It’s bad,” said Lockwood quietly. “Uniformed men are all over the place searching buildings. They’ll reach the end of this street in a few minutes.”

  Damn! Redmond hoped for more time, but now he was forced to make a decision.

  “We ’ave to run!” said Hand.

  Redmond agreed. “Aye. Get some clothes like Noah’s. I’ll speak to the men.”

  Hand ran behind the bench and ordered a captive to strip. The man was quick to oblige.

  “Listen up men,” said Redmond. Some of them, Mogley included, had watched the three men at the door with some interest, but most were bewitched by the picture box. Redmond had to repeat himself to gain their attention. Stupid bastards! he thought, whatever happens serves them right. “Noah’s bin out ’n says it’s clear,” he began. “But there’s too many people around for us all to move on. We’d be spotted a mile off.” He plucked at his shirt for emphasis, sending a flurry of dried blood flakes to the floor.

  “I’m goin’ wi’ Noah an’ Silas to fetch us all some clothes.”

  Joseph Mogley was immediately suspicious, damn him! “Whats you goin’ fer? You stands out like dog’s bollocks!”

  Cursing silently, Redmond saw several men nod in agreement. Thinking fast, he jerked a thumb to where Lockwood and Hand stood. “’Cause I don’t trust them bastards to get me the right size!”

  Most men laughed, but not Mogley. “You’re not comin’ back!” he accused.

  Jesus Christ Almighty! thought Redmond, fighting with himself to keep control. He walked closer to Mogley and raised the shotgun. He looked at Mogley, then at the gun and, finally, at the horrified faces of the convicts. Then he dropped the gun into Mogley’s hands. “Look after this ’til I gets back. You’re in charge.”

  The repulsive little convict couldn’t prevent a brief grin as he weighed the weapon, though his eyes remained as shifty as ever. But Redmond had won; to someone like Mogley the idea of Redmond handing over such a prize and not returning for it was incomprehensible. Redmond was loath to lose it, yet it was worth it to keep Mogley quiet until they were clear.

  Satisfied, Redmond took off his shirt and put it back on inside out. It made little difference. Then he went to the older woman prisoner, who lay naked and still on the floor behind the bench and pulled off the ribbon that tied back her hair. He pulled on his matted hair and twisted it behind his neck, using the ribbon to complete the pony tail. Looking at his reflection on the metal bench, he winced. His face shone white through his red-flecked beard and the skin beneath his eyes was black. No wonder the captives recoiled from him. Any other modifications to his appearance would have to wait. It was time to go.

  “Lads,” said Redmond. “We’ll not be gone long, so no one goes outside, see. Mogley here’s my man an’ you does what he says while I’m gone.”

  Lockwood and Hand were busy behind the bench stuffing their pockets with gold coin and notes – an impressive haul. “Let’s go,” said Redmond, steering them to the door.

  Once outside, Lockwood made them turn right, he and Hand shielding Redmond from the left hand end of the street, where, Redmond saw, three men in uniforms were talking closely together.

  The warm breeze felt good on his skin and Redmond looked up to the clear blue sky. There were a few people about, yet they did not seem to take much notice of him, caught up in their own thoughts. Having ditched the convicts, he felt a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. With his two trusted companions the prospect of escape was a reality.

  WATKINS

  Staggering down the steps from the two storey building, Doctor James Watkins stumbled into the street, doubled up with pain. He made slow, painful progress for a few minutes until he found a seemingly deserted house with a high wall around its dilapidated garden. He squeezed in past the gate, which hung off one hinge and sat down gingerly, but gratefully in the shade. His sigh of relief brought a great wave of pain and he clutched his groin tightly with both hands until the agony receded. Bitch! he thought viciously.

  He listened for several moments, not daring to move until he was sure he was not followed. Relaxing, he tentatively felt the outline of his swollen testicles through his trousers. This really was a frightful place, he thought bitterly, wondering if he had made the right decision in taking his leave from the naval base. It had been so easy after the chaos of the morning, but he felt he deserved a better reward than the one he’d so far received.

  After being plucked from the harbour by those two dreadful men, Watkins had suffered the indignity of being left with the mutilated bodies for close to an hour. Alive, the men of the Marlin were repulsive, yet death had done little to improve them in the surgeon’s eyes. His own escape from the burning ship, he would admit only to himself, was nothing short of miraculous.

  His only route after the convict attack on his person outside the convict hold, was the hold itself. He’d regained consciousness as the battle raged above him on the deck. Climbing those stairs would only land him in the thick of action, and no doubt certain death. His injuries were only superficial, so he quickly scrambled back into the hold. About forty men were still in the room, half of them victims of the storm, the others too frightened to join the bid for freedom. Watkins looked at them with scorn, secure in the knowledge that there was a great difference between cowardice and self-preservation.

  Watkins bullied the convicts into helping him, promising them he was their only hope of survival. They agreed, even more eager when the first flickers of firelight lit the hatch to the deck. Shivers of panic went through the surgeon, but he knew he must keep his head. Two of the men hoisted him up to the bars. They grew hotter as he fumbled for the bolt holding the hatch in place. He swore when he found it, for the metal hinge was rusted and stuck fast. Watkins damned Cross roundly over the terrible screams and crackle of flames. He was trapped!

  Through tears of fear and frustration, an idea dawned. Dropping back into
the hold, knocking three convicts over in his haste, Watkins picked up a sturdy plank. He resisted the urge to test its strength on a convict’s head and ordered the men to hoist him once again. Sparks were now showering him, yet he managed to lever the plank under the bolt and heaved. The wood split with a large crack, but to his immense relief, the bolt broke. Lifting the heavy grille with some difficulty, he pushed it far enough to allow him to squeeze through the gap and scramble up.

  Chaos ruled on the deck, Watkins saw with horror. A wall of flame split the ship in two, leaving the surgeon on the same side as the convicts. Fortunately, they had no interest in him as they were busy piling over the port rail.

  Watkins had a flame-distorted view of Cross on the poop deck, madly gesticulating to his men. Cross seemed to see the surgeon and stared through the flames for a number of seconds. Watkins could not be sure if he had been seen, yet he could take no chances. If they survived this disaster, Cross would hardly hesitate to try Watkins for allowing more convicts to escape.

  Ignoring the pathetic cries of the convicts in the hold, Watkins replaced the hatch cover and wedged the broken plank through the shattered bolt ring. Once it was securely fastened, he looked to his own safety. Unable to swim, Watkins would still rather take his chances in the water than burn to death. He had seen badly burnt men become hideously deformed monsters.

  All he could find to keep himself afloat was a water barrel lashed to the side. Frantic now, he cursed with frustration as it took an age to free the barrel from the knots, his jacket began to smoulder and sweat ran down his cheeks. Finally, the barrel came loose. Watkins emptied the contents and jumped back from the encroaching flames. He watched as the crew went over the starboard rail and into the water. The shore was further away on that side, but the fighting convicts were to port. The decision was made easier when he saw a large boat surge away from the Marlin, convicts covering the vessel as they hung on grimly, though some fell screaming into the water. Watkins plumped for safety and leapt from the port side clutching the barrel to his chest, receiving a painful blow to the chin as he hit the water.

  The surgeon’s struggle to control the spinning barrel kept him afloat for two hours, his ears ringing with the dreadful sounds made by the convicts he left behind.

  “Die, you swines!” he spluttered, unable to shut out their screams.

  Eventually, after the final explosion, it was quiet and the remains of the Marlin slipped below the surface. They deserved to die, thought Watkins. They were habitual, incorrigible criminals, completely worthless as human beings. Helping the surgeon to escape from the hold was probably the most useful act they had performed in the whole of their miserable lives. The world was better off without them. He could still hear their accusing screams, though.

  He spent the rest of his time in the water cursing the Marlin, Cross, Blaney, the crew, Captain Forrest of the Fortune, the convicts, the ship’s builders and anyone else he could think of who had slighted him in the past. It helped to keep him angry enough to survive.

  Following his rescue and his wait with the bodies, Watkins was taken to some comfortable offices in a building near the wharf. A succession of inquisitors questioned him closely and Watkins was happy to lay the entire blame at the feet of Captain William Cross Esq. The surgeon felt justified to accuse Cross; if he had not treated Redmond the way he had then the Marlin would be safely anchored in Sydney Cove and he, Watkins, would be dry, comfortable and sipping port in his new practice. Alas, it was not to be, so Cross would pay.

  The final questioner was a large, ugly man called Marsh. He informed Watkins that Cross had been apprehended and was being particularly uncooperative. The surgeon did not like this man and his appalling manners, but he was impressed by the way Marsh twisted the story to indict Cross further. A scapegoat was clearly required. The detective dictated a marvellously inaccurate statement, uncontested by Watkins, which the surgeon signed with a flourish. Though he had no idea of what was going on in this unbelievable, nightmarish city, Watkins had no intention of making the Captain’s life any easier. He did, however, make it clear to everyone he met that he had suffered a serious blow to the head, in case circumstances changed, and, as a result, his story must, too.

  Marsh departed soon afterwards, telling the surgeon he would be sent for later in the day. Watkins was taken from the main navy compound to a single storey building outside the perimeter fence. Too occupied with survival when he was in the water to take in much of the city, he now saw the majestic buildings in all their glory. The glass towers reflected the morning sun magnificently. It would be easy to become lost among them, he mused as his two navy escorts led him into the building.

  Informed he would have to wait until summoned to the Central Police Station, no doubt in one of those infernal growling carriages out on the street, Watkins was left in a waiting room. A man shuffling papers at a desk was the only other occupant after the escort left the room. The surgeon’s eager cooperation had evidently convinced the authorities he had no intention of leaving their protection. But Watkins was having more than a few misgivings.

  “Is there a place where I may wash?” he asked.

  The man at the desk looked up. “Yeah, down that corridor, second on the right,” he said absently. “You can’t miss it.”

  The room was marked by a sign stating ‘Gentlemen’. Watkins nodded at the appropriateness, entered and marvelled at the room’s cleanliness, a large expanse of white, tiled walls and half a dozen wash basins. As he approached the nearest one, he caught sight of his appearance in the mirror and was horrified. He was haggard, with huge black lines beneath his eyes and sickly, pallid skin stretched tightly on his face. A vain man who took pride in his appearance, Watkins could hardly believe the change that had taken place in only a few hours. Still, he thought, realising the damage could be repaired, better to look half dead than be fully dead like so many men of the Marlin.

  Fiddling with a tap he was delighted to find a steady stream of hot water flowing into the basin. He stripped to the waist and gave himself a thorough wash, scrubbing his face with the marvellous soft soap provided. After wetting his hair he washed his ribbon and tied back his locks neatly before studying his image with a critical eye. The eyes still looked bad, though he thought a little of their sparkle had returned, but the skin was definitely an improvement. Some of the colour was back and he looked less of a walking cadaver. He now looked like a sick man on the way back to health.

  In the chaotic morning no one had thought to offer Watkins a change of clothes, so he still wore his own. The cloth had dried stiff and uncomfortable, so he used the hot water to dampen them again and straightened the creases. Some of the stains proved stubborn, yet the end result left him in a far better frame of mind. His appearance, unless scrutinised closely, would not cause anyone to look at him twice. He then spent a few happy minutes on one of the three luxurious easing chairs in the room and felt like a new man. Everything had been thought of in this place.

  Sitting and thinking, Watkins reassessed his position. The man, Marsh, was satisfied with the ammunition the surgeon had supplied him, but Watkins had little idea of Marsh’s authority. What if Captain Cross outranked him or held greater sway with the Governor? Although Watkins was technically discharged, now he was in New South Wales, Cross could still be an effective thorn in his side and, after the way he had wronged Redmond, the man would not think twice about ruining the surgeon’s career. Watkins decided he would have to make the first and decisive move to protect his position.

  He must reach Doctor Nathaniel Grimes before Cross was able to put his own case to the Governor. The doctor was Watkins’ father’s best friend, and the man responsible for Watkins’ appointment to his new practice. A tremendously eminent gentleman, Watkins remembered, Grimes was sure to have the Governor’s ear and would smooth over any problems posed by the loathed captain of the Marlin.

  Back in the corridor outside the Gentlemen’s room, Watkins checked that no one could see him. The o
nly way out was through the waiting room. He returned to the Gentlemen’s room and opened the high window over the basins. It looked out onto the street. Fate, he thought, his spirits rising, was on his side. He climbed out easily and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the tall city buildings. There were lots of people and vehicles racing here and there and he felt dreadfully exposed and at the mercy of the horrible buzzing carriages. Across the road to his left was Wylde Street, according to a sign, an equally busy, yet more sheltered road winding away up a hill. He waited an age for a lull in the traffic, then dashed across the street as fast as his legs would carry him. The road turned out to be quite steep, but he enjoyed stretching his legs after so many months at sea. A growing number of people occupied the footpath as he walked, giving him a greater sense of security. He could feel his muscles easing and felt better than he had at any time since being forced to leave the comforts of HMS Fortune.

  In his mind, Watkins’ plan was quite simple. Find Doctor Grimes and present him with the deeds to Watkins’ Sydney property. The document was safe in his jacket, damp and stained, perhaps, but still readable and legally binding. Sydney was not the expected muddy shanty-town at the end of the world. Instead, the place oozed wealth. The property deed, granting him a dwelling and land close to the cove must be worth a fortune, he was convinced, far greater than the modest amount his father had paid. Something inexplicable had happened to the colony, but Watkins was damned if he would look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Lost in these exciting thoughts, Watkins almost crashed into the girl. He stopped just in time, his eyes instantly focussing on the glorious apparition. She stood almost as tall as the surgeon, wearing red, high-heeled shoes. Her long, slender, naked legs were topped by the briefest of short trousers, which were also red. A skimpy white vest, which left her midriff exposed to the world, barely covered her ample chest, its two buttons battling valiantly to restrain their burden. When Watkins’ eyes had their fill of this sight, he saw her lovely oval face did not disappoint, either. Set off by shining, straw-coloured hair, to Watkins she was a Greek goddess. His mouth went dry and the power of his lust seemed to drain the blood from his legs. What a magnificent whore!