Blaney opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Instead, he took her hand and held it tight for a moment. “In a short time,” he began, “you have become very important to me, Karen. But I am responsible for these men. There are things I have to do that make no sense to you.” He grinned. “Perhaps to me also, at times. However, I am an officer of His Majesty and whatever you may think of duty, I am bound by it. And if that means I will die before the sun sets, then so be it.”
Jesus Christ! thought Karen. I’ve fallen for not just any lunatic, but a suicidal one. However, she could see he was deadly serious and she would get nowhere with her argument. And the finality of his statement made him even more attractive, damn him! “Look, Chris, I feel something for you, too. And I don’t mind admitting it scares the hell out me. I’m not going to ask for any promises...” – she remembered the last time she tried, at the police station – “...but I will say this. You may well get to the Fortune, but realistically, no further. If you are stopped, then you must surrender. Dying is pointless. There is no death penalty here. You might go to prison for the police station escape, but I will speak up for you and I’m sure you won’t have to serve much time.” Especially if you plead insanity.
Karen cleared her throat; her voice had become husky. “I’ll wait for you.” It sounded crazy to her ears, yet at that moment she believed it completely.
They heard a motor at the same time and turned to the stern. Briggs was approaching with another group of men. “Go on, Chris, I’d like to be alone for a while.”
He studied her, then nodded and walked away.
Karen went to starboard and leaned against the rail. The afternoon breeze had picked up, but the day was still glorious. To the east the enormous bank of storm clouds billowed high into the sky, threatening, but out to sea. The harbour was alive with yachts of every colour, their sails proudly puffed out before them, mirroring the Opera House beyond them. Karen had a strong sense of foreboding, as though the deck beneath her feet was sinking. Yet everything was peaceful as the city went about its business, the harbour at least hardly fazed by the drama taking place in its midst.
She watched a harbour ferry leave Circular Quay, reversing in a wide circle before heading out on its journey. Tourists, probably, at this time of the day, heading for Luna Park or Darling Harbour, she guessed. It would be nice to be with them, taking happy photographs, without a care in the world. A journalist should take a detached, impersonal view of an event, but today Karen had gone much further. She turned to see Blaney help more wide-eyed men onto the cruiser. What on earth am I doing? she wondered.
REDMOND
The shadow of the great bridge fell across Rufus Redmond’s face, snapping him from his daydream. The gentle rocking of the ferry reminded him of being aboard a real ship. Not the Marlin, though. He remembered his days before the mast as an ordinary seaman, heaving ropes, scrambling aloft, using his enormous strength hauling anchor. The days of good, honest work. Days when he came home after months at sea to the welcoming tears of Mary. Days when he had respect for his Captain...
“Cor! Look at that!” said Hand.
On the edge of the bay to which they were headed, almost under the bridge, there was a kind of fair. Redmond saw colourful buildings with turrets and things that looked like elaborate maypoles and a giant turning wheel. It looked a fine place to take a boy. But such memories were no use to him now. The wharf at McMahons Point loomed and he needed his wits about him.
Redmond saw Hand was amazed by the fair, but Lockwood’s face was a shade of green as the ferry rocked in the wake of a passing boat. “Damn it, man, you’ve bin at sea for most part of a year! Grab a hold o’ yerself.”
Lockwood took a deep breath and almost gagged. “I’ll be alright,” he said, though he did not sound convincing. “It was that rotten beer.”
“Aye,” grunted Redmond. “See that you shake it off. I’ll not carry a useless man wi’ me!”
Studying the bay beside McMahons Point, Redmond’s humour improved. There were dozens of sailing boats to chose from, all of them polished and gleaming so bright it was hard to look at them. The most impressive was a huge white ship in the centre of the bay. Far too big for the convicts’ purposes and without masts or sails, it was still an awesome sight. He picked out a small sailing boat closer to the wharf, about thirty feet in length and perfect.
He studied the boat carefully, working out what needed to be done. Much of the equipment aboard was unfamiliar, but it had masts, sails, ropes and a wheel and he could tell it was light and fast. He visualised skimming the waves as the boat raced through the harbour heads and turned north. They would have to put ashore for supplies somewhere, but after today, that was a task of little concern.
He pointed the boat out to Lockwood, who had to squint. “It’s a better choice even than you think,” he announced. He paused to release a watery belch. “It’s called Escape!”
Redmond laughed.
“’Tis a good omen, that,” said Hand, seriously.
Redmond sat back, more relaxed than he had been in a year. Even his back had stopped troubling him; just a healing ache, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. The ever-present thought of Cross could not even dampen Redmond’s spirits. It was a crying shame he would not fulfil his promise to finish the Captain, but here was a real chance of freedom. Soon he would be his own man again, on the sea and at liberty to go wherever he chose. Free of this damned town that threatened to squeeze the very life...
“Holy Mother of God!” cried Lockwood as he looked into the bay.
Redmond turned to him sharply. Can I not have one minute’s peace? “What is it, man?” he demanded, noting Lockwood’s colour had gone from green to white.
“Look!” He pointed.
Reluctantly, Redmond tore his gaze away from the sailing boat. He looked where Lockwood pointed but could see nothing out of the ordinary. “What?” he demanded harshly.
“There,” said Lockwood, “the little boat moving toward the big one. I must be mistaken!”
Locating the boat a hundred yards away, Redmond studied it. It was crowded with men, each dressed in the same odd uniform. They looked familiar somehow. It dawned on him slowly as he scanned the men, until he focussed on the last of them, an older man, seated in the sternsheets. He had aged in the hours since Redmond last saw him through the flames, his eyes sunken and invisible at this distance, his cheeks grey and sunken.
Yet sick or not, Captain William Cross lived, and for Redmond it was almost too much for him to bear. He watched with increasing rage as the boat approached the beautiful white ship moored in the middle of the bay. The swine Blaney and young Kite appeared on deck to help the Captain and his men aboard. By Christ! They’d done all right for themselves.
All thought of escape instantly vanished from Redmond’s mind. His temples throbbed and his fists clenched, causing his knuckles to crunch. A wave of pain washed across his back bringing back every hateful memory into vivid detail.
“Forget the sails,” he barked. “I’m killing Cross!”
Lockwood and Hand exchanged glances, but neither of them dared challenge the maniacal look in Redmond’s eyes.
WATKINS
At first, Watkins had not been able to see why Redmond was so fixated on something out on the water, but when he realised the convict had seen Captain Cross and the crew, the shocking development opened up the Doctor’s mind to new opportunities. The company of the Marlin had evidently acquired some considerable fortune since this morning, he could see, admiring their new vessel. The magnificent craft represented enormous wealth and power, qualities of great importance to Watkins.
The ferry bumped against the McMahons Point wharf and Watkins hid himself from view as the three convicts got up and descended the outside stairs. Watkins went down the inner staircase and was concerned when he saw less than a dozen people were about to disembark. He caught a view of Redmond’s face and shrank away. The man was filled with hatred, his face an angry
red, his eyes filled with murderous intent. The surgeon had last seen that look shortly before the breakout on the Marlin.
Fortunately, the convicts were in no mind to dawdle and moved quickly away from the wharf. Watkins was last off the ferry and saw that they did not seem concerned by pursuit. McMahons Point was cut off from the rest of the bay by a small building. The three convicts quickly worked this out and then hurried down a lane which ran away from the water. Redmond and Hand were in good shape, but Lockwood was clearly drunk, weaving an erratic path behind them, as though one of his legs was six inches shorter than the other.
Hurrying after them, Watkins stopped at the corner of the lane and peered around the building wall. The lane led to a street running parallel to the bay. Redmond, Hand and Lockwood kept a brisk pace and Watkins followed, taking advantage of trees and upturned rowboats to conceal his presence. They turned right into Bayview Street and Lavender Bay was revealed in all its glory. Even Watkins, who was usually unmoved by such things, had to admit the view was beautiful. On the trip and when leaving the ferry he had been too preoccupied by the convicts to notice the surroundings. But now, seeing the city, the bridge and the curious, strangely shaped sail building beyond it, all set off against the sparkling blue water, he was taken with the sheer spectacle of the colony. Only the familiar storm clouds in the east soured the scene.
The convicts went down to the water where a collection of ramshackle boat sheds fringed the shoreline. Watkins saw them stop and speak to a man who he could only see from the waist up. Puzzled by the man’s swaying movement, the surgeon realised he was standing in a boat. Watkins crept closer, then crouched behind an upturned boat where he could see and hear what was going on.
Lockwood was speaking in crisp, though slurred tones, blasted traitor to his class that he was. “...the ship over there.”
“Why should I do that?” asked the man, scratching his head. Watkins recognised that tone. He wanted something for his trouble.
“We have friends aboard,” said Lockwood. “We would like to surprise them.”
Watkins stole a look at the men. Redmond wore a savage grin. They would be surprised, all right!
“I dunno,” said the man, unconvinced as he transferred his scratching to his stubbled chin.
“I assure you we are quite respectable.”
Watkins stifled a snort of derision.
“The Premier looks respectable, but I wouldn’t let him within a mile of me boat.”
Redmond was simmering with impatience. He shoved Lockwood aside and thrust a bundle of crumpled paper under the boatman’s nose. His transformation was instant. “Why didn’t you say?” he asked. “Step in, gentlemen.”
Watkins watched them row away from the shore, Redmond directing the man to take them on a wide arc, initially away from the white ship. What would they do, he wondered. The convicts must be armed or they would not risk their lives. But surely so were Cross and his men. Would there be a battle?
He looked to the white ship. Cross and his men were aboard and Blaney was ushering them through a door on the rear deck, leaving it deserted.
Redmond’s boat disappeared behind the vessel and did not reappear at the other side. Watkins held his breath as he watched, fascinated. The small boat reappeared. The rower was alone. Then a figure clambered on top of the ship, a flat deck housing sticks and wires and equipment of various shapes and sizes. He could not tell if the man was Hand or Lockwood, but he recognised Redmond when the huge convict appeared with the other man seconds later, closely followed by his other companion. They huddled together, pointing and gesticulating and then moved as a group. Watkins saw them lift a piece of canvas attached to an object sitting on the deck and climb under it. The canvas settled, hiding them completely.
Well, thought Watkins, what to do? The two groups certainly deserved each other. The sensible thing was to leave them to it and may the most vicious win. But was it? His own plan to make another assault on the Governor’s residence had lost its lustre now he was away from the city. The memory of his humiliation among those buildings meant he did not relish the thought of going back. He had no money and, if unsuccessful, his future was horribly uncertain.
Whereas, now he had knowledge. And, therefore, power. But what to do with it. Cross had somehow acquired a ship that made the Marlin look like driftwood. A magnificent vessel. He had the backing of someone powerful. Perhaps the Governor. How much glory and gratitude would there be for a humble surgeon who could deliver three desperate, dangerous convicts into the hands of the authorities?
Watkins closed his eyes and imagined people doffing their hats to him in the streets. “There goes the hero,” they would say. Society would queue at the doors of his surgery. He would be the toast of the town. One of the elite.
But first, he thought, returning to reality, there was the small problem of reaching the white ship. The man who had rowed the convicts to the vessel was approaching the shore. Watkins decided on a direct approach. “I say,” he called as the puffing man reached the sea wall, “I see I have missed my friends. They promised they would wait for me.”
The man was unmoved.
“Would you take me out there, also?”
“Christ! Not again!,” the man said, wearily. “I’m buggered.”
Watkins frowned and fought to keep in his temper. The man’s lack of respect for the surgeon’s class was blatant. “How much did they pay you?”
The man’s eyes sparkled with interest. Close up, Watkins saw he was in his fifties, his features coarsened by the sun. He recognised another devious mind as the man calculated his fee, probably doubling Redmond’s payment. “A hundred.”
“Very well. I shall pay the same.”
The man was suddenly a picture of vibrant health. Money was a fine tonic, thought Watkins. “In advance,” the man demanded.
The surgeon was ready for this line. He looked down his nose at the man. “You, sir, appear to possess an excessive greed. It is not my practice to pay money before the completion of a service. I shall make enquiries elsewhere. Good day to you.” With that, he turned and strolled off toward the boat sheds, hardly daring to breathe.
It was an agonising ten steps before the man called him back. “OK, I’ll take you.” Watkins felt giddy with relief. He walked back casually and stepped into the boat, giving the man a withering, triumphant look. The man heaved on the oars, his cheeks billowing like miniature red sails, and they were on their way.
At the back of his mind, Watkins worried about the incriminating statement he had signed that morning. If Cross knew about it, then there could be trouble. He would have to pretend he was forced to make the statement and brazen it out.
The ship loomed closer. Watkins wanted to get aboard quietly, so as not to alert the convicts. He ordered the rower to take him to the stern of the ship, well away from the convicts’ hiding place.
“Hand over the money,” said the man, pulling in his oars twenty yards from the vessel.
Damnation! thought Watkins. The boat still drifted on, but it was not yet close enough for comfort. The look on the man’s face told him it would have to do, however. “On reflection,” said Watkins, “I have decided the money paid by my companions was more than sufficient for two trips.”
The rower did not take too kindly to this statement. He stood up and stepped toward Watkins, rocking the small boat alarmingly. Without thinking, the surgeon also stood to defend himself. “I’ll fucking sort you out!” said the man. But instead of attacking, he crouched down and shook the sides of the boat. Arms flailing, Watkins lost his balance and toppled over the side into the water. He did not have time to inform the rower he could not swim.
His head went under and he swallowed water, his senses overwhelmed. Somehow, his head broke the surface and he floundered and spluttered, barely able to see or hear. The white ship was a blur above him, agonisingly close, yet too far away to reach. He did not dare cry out for fear of alerting the convicts, though they may well hear his coughin
g and spluttering. Then the knuckles of his left hand rapped against a wooden surface. He realised it was the boat on which he had seen Cross. It was tied to the stern of the white ship.
Grappling for a hold, Watkins began to panic. Thrashing in the water, he could not reach the lip of the boat, only the smooth surface of its hull. He heard voices from the deck of the ship. Blaney, Kite, a woman. His strength was fading and his movements became more desperate. A noisy boat roared by somewhere near, making his ears rattle. Suddenly, there was a different roar and the water beneath him erupted into froth. He screamed in horror and his mouth immediately filled with bubbling foam. He sensed the white ship begin to move. Oh, dear God, he thought, I’m going to die!
The boat tied to the ship swung against his head, knocking Watkins under again. His arms reached up and a sleeve caught on something sharp and he found himself pulled along under water. Desperately, he brought his other hand up and gripped metal, managing to pull his head clear of the water for the first time. He took a deep, gulping breath and had a coughing fit, though he maintained his hold as the speed of the ship increased.
Watkins found he was hanging onto a small metal boat tied to the stern of the ship. Sharp edges dug into his aching hands and he knew he could not hold on for much longer. He had to get into the boat. Dragging himself up, he reached the gunwale and levered himself up. It took a long time, but eventually he got a leg over the side, ever mindful of capsizing the boat, and pulled himself in and rolled to the bottom. The tension went from his body and the great bridge looming began to spin and his vision blurred. He tried to move, but his body was too heavy. I’ll rest for a moment, he decided and closed his eyes. Doctor James Watkins passed out.
DECKER
“They’re moving!” exclaimed Valerie Doyle. She was bending over the telescope looking out over the harbour. Harry Decker could not decide which of the two views he preferred. But he had to concentrate. Decker tower possessed the best view of the harbour in Sydney, perfect for following the progress of the Newshound.
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