TimeStorm
Page 32
The Newshound washed over another tall wave and Redmond swung further inboard, dragging Blaney with him. The Lieutenant saw his chance and with the last of his energy slammed his feet down and ran Redmond further along the deck. As the cruiser crashed down the other side of the wave he pushed himself off the deck, twisting his body at the same time. The two men swung rapidly toward the stern with all the force of their combined weight.
Blaney had timed his move perfectly. Redmond’s head smashed against the rail, crushed even harder by Blaney’s weight. The convict released his grip and Blaney fell to the deck. He took great, gasping, painful breaths and staggered to the rail. With enormous effort he rolled himself over, fell to the metal platform with a clatter and rolled into the water. He surfaced for a moment, but he could find no strength. His arms floundered, but they could not prevent him from slipping under the surface.
EVANS
“Jesus! The bastard isn’t bluffing!” exclaimed George Evans. The Newshound raced toward the Patrol Boat at increasing speed. Evans had altered course twice, but the cruiser was intent on a deliberate collision and action was urgently needed. He looked to the skipper.
“Fire a warning shot ahead of her bow.”
Evans relayed the order to the gunner, who fired almost immediately. The shell hit the water forty metres in front of the Newshound and the plume of spray hid the cruiser from sight. But then it reappeared, undaunted, bursting through the water like a brawling cowboy through a saloon window. She was now only five hundred metres away and on a collision course.
Evans felt his mouth go dry. There was only one order the skipper could give, but in his strange mood anything could happen. The officer stared ahead, mulling over the problem until the last possible moment, his face screwed up in concentration. Then he nodded to himself. “It’s almost safe,” he said.
Evans thought he had misheard. “Sir?”
“Take aim on the cruiser, George,” he said, “and prepare to fire.”
Evans muttered a prayer of thanks and relayed the message.
REDMOND
Rufus Redmond reeled from the blow to the back of his head. He clasped the injured area with his hands and they came away sticky with blood. Blaney was nowhere to be seen, damn his eyes! He’d probably gone over the side like the others.
Ignoring the pain, Redmond ripped the gag from his mouth and set to work on the bonds holding his feet. It was difficult because of the wild swaying, but his furious determination made him succeed. First one foot was free, then the other. He swung from the pole to the deck and collapsed in excruciating pain. The blood had drained from his legs and they felt as though they were on fire. He cursed and bellowed as he forced himself to walk. He had seen all the men jump from the ship. All but one.
He looked back. The Fortune was only a shape in the mist. Blaney was a fool to leave him alive, but now he still had a chance to make good his escape. The convict forced himself to the stairs and dragged himself up to the wheelhouse. The pins and needles in his legs were agony and blood flowed down his back from the reopened wounds of the flogging and the blow to his head, but only death would have prevented him from reaching his goal.
He could see the wheel now and William Cross slumped across it, his body supported by a stool. Rage welled up inside Redmond as he mounted the last step, but the view through the broken forward window revealed the reason the Captain had remained aboard. The great grey boat was perilously close and both ships were soon to collide. Cross planned to sacrifice them both!
Redmond hurled himself across the wheelhouse, oblivious to the pain. “You bastard!” he screamed, tearing the Captain away from the wheel and looking into his face. The man he hated for ruining his life, depriving him of his woman and child, bringing him to this God-forsaken place and ruining everything that was once good in his life, was dead in his arms. Even the small pleasure of watching him die had been denied him.
Crying tears of frustration, Redmond flung the body aside and it crashed to the deck and slid obscenely down the stairs. Wrenching the wheel hard to starboard, the convict watched with horror as the fore cannon on the grey ship fired. The world seemed to stop as the shot hit somewhere below and forward, an almost imperceptible shudder before the cruiser blew apart around him and Rufus Redmond knew no more.
KAREN
Karen cradled Blaney in her arms in the water. He was conscious, but completely helpless. She was exhausted too, having decided to swim after the Newshound when she saw Blaney attacked by Redmond. Even though she was a strong swimmer, Karen had only just reached the Lieutenant in time as he submerged. Treading water she watched the Newshound explode and wondered again how Cross could sacrifice his own life for no good reason. A boat launched from the Fortune came toward them. The sailing ship had stopped to render assistance and now had no hope of escape.
Karen was happy for herself, as Blaney would be safe, but she knew he would be disappointed. All that effort wasted. She kissed the back of his head as the boat came alongside. Burly arms lifted Blaney into the boat, but Karen stayed in the water as the men reached for her. A helicopter was approaching through the mist, a rescue worker with a harness poised ready in the open doorway to drop down and pick her up.
The crewmen looked at the chopper in fear and then at Karen. She looked into their faces. They were genuinely frightened; of that there was no doubt. Who were these men? And who was Blaney? Where was he from? She looked at him, his head lolled unconscious in the small boat. He looked like a little boy. Suddenly, his eyes opened. He started to jump up, but a crewman held him firm as he got his bearings. Then he saw Karen and smiled his smile, the one she imagined was reserved for her alone.
Karen raised her hands from the water. “What are you waiting for, you scurvy bastards. Haul me aboard!”
EVANS
George Evans had no idea what was going on in the skipper’s head. It didn’t make any sense. As soon as the Newshound was blown to pieces, he had ordered a full stop, so now the patrol boat drifted some three hundred metres away from the stern of the sailing ship. The mist had closed in and the two vessels were cut off from the rest of the world, although the helicopters and other boats could be heard, the rumble of their engines distorted.
The last of the Newshound’s crew were climbing a net onto the ship and the boat with the woman bumped against the side. Evans watched as sailors climbed down and expertly carried a semi-conscious man from the small boat up to the deck.
Evans looked at the skipper, who was observing the scene with a very strange look on his face. The other sailors were also staring at their captain.
“Sir?” said Evans
The skipper turned to him, smiled.
“We have to board them and tow the ship back, sir.”
The skipper stepped out of the wheelhouse and turned back to Evans. “Bring us in close.” He then walked slowly to the prow.
Relieved, Evans gunned the patrol boat forward.
BLANEY
Blaney was barely aware of being hauled up the ropes, though he did remember being kissed on the back of the head and absently hoped it had not been a sailor. He was dragged roughly over the rail onto the deck and the jolt was enough to bring him close to his senses. A strong hand on his arm kept him from falling as he took in the surroundings.
The Fortune was bustling with activity as sailors scampered up the rigging to release the sails, although there was precious little wind. Blaney felt at home, finally, and took in a big breath of sea air.
“I can stand unaided now,” he said.
“I should hope so,” said Karen.
Blaney turned to her, shocked. “You came!”
“Well, I couldn’t let you drown yourself.”
Captain Forrest hurried up to them and pumped Blaney’s hand vigorously. Travis was with him, beaming at Blaney. “I am very glad to see you, Mister Blaney.” He tipped his hat to Karen. “Come with me,” he said and led them to the stern.
Men were crowded at the rail, but Forre
st dragged some of them away so they could look below. Blaney was surprised to see the grey ship’s prow was only metres away. A man stood, his legs apart to steady himself, looking up at them. He wore a blue uniform and an odd skull cap with a peak at the front to shade his eyes. At the sight of Blaney, he took off the cap.
“Oh my God,” gasped Karen.
Blaney was speechless. The man could have been his twin. The nose was a little straighter and his skin fairer, but the mouth, his hooded eyes, the shape of his face…
The man suddenly smiled – Blaney’s smile – and saluted. Blaney didn’t understand at first. But then it all made sense.
“What the devil is going on?” asked Forrest, staring at each man in turn.
Blaney returned the salute. “We are free to go, Captain.”
Forrest stared at Blaney for a few more seconds, then sprang into action, dragging a crew member away and shouting at the others. “Back to your stations! Get them moving, Mister Piper!”
Forrest and the men bustled away, leaving Blaney and Karen at the rail.
They watched as the Fortune moved away from the grey boat, the gap being filled by mist. The man nodded, then turned and walked back to the cabin.
Blaney became aware of Karen again. She was gripping his arm with both hands. “It’s not too late for you to go back,” he said.
She gripped him tighter. “Nah,” she said. “Until we’re arrested, I’m not leaving your side.”
Blaney turned to her. “I’m so very glad,” he said.
WILLIAM
William Blaney drove straight through town. He had read the local newspaper online and knew he was the biggest celebrity the town had ever seen. Or was ever likely to see. No doubt he would front up at the pub one night and tell the story yet again. But not today. Today he was going home.
He had never felt so relaxed, though he knew it was relief. The court martial, the Royal Commission, the police enquiry and the seemingly endless media interviews were now behind him. Like Bathurst, he thought, glancing in the rear view mirror.
He had been accused of negligence, gross dereliction of duty and a number of other crimes, real or imagined. But he was not charged with being an accomplice, of which he definitely was guilty. The enquiries had dragged on day after day, but in the end no one knew for certain what had happened on that day.
All that remained were the dead; men from nowhere with no names. The survivors had vanished into the mists and after the storm the biggest sea search in Australian history had not found so much as a piece of driftwood. William had been tempted to tell them they were wasting their time, but was wise enough to keep his own counsel. In the end, his explanation that enough carnage had taken place on that day and he did not wish to add to it, had been grudgingly accepted. Just like his letter of resignation from the Navy. He recognised the need for a scapegoat and he had never really enjoyed the service. It was merely a means to a very important end; his own existence.
It was hard to believe that fourteen years had passed since he and Uncle Jimmy carried the old trunk into the house and the family history had been revealed.
It had not been an easy read. His father told him the family had always struggled to understand Karen’s awful handwriting and appalling spelling. William had followed her career, knew where she lived and worked, but he had never gone near her. “Too dangerous,” his father told him. “You mustn’t interfere,” added Jimmy.
And so he had seen Karen and Christopher Blaney for the first and last time outside the harbour heads. William saw his past and they saw their future.
Turning the car off the main road, William drove five hundred metres along the dirt road and stopped in front of the large wooden arch, topped by the carved wooden fish and beneath it, the words, MARLIN ESTATE. Home.
He drove on through the hills, occasionally catching glimpses of the house and his bedroom window. The property was his, now, following the death of his father two years ago. Uncle Jimmy had moved in to run the estate while William plotted his path through the Navy to patrol boat captain, a task made surprisingly easy, he assumed, by destiny.
William stopped again at Lone Tree Hill, the spot his father had chosen to speak to him about his career. He skirted around the foot of the hill until he came to the family graveyard. It was fenced off these days and had grown over almost two hundred years, from the two central gravestones, in an increasing spiral of graves. This shape had fascinated William as a boy, but it was only after he read Karen’s words that he knew it had been Christopher Blaney’s wish to design the family plot to represent a whirlpool.
Starting at his father’s grave, William strolled through the history of his family until he stood before the last two stones. The first two.
Their journey here had not been straightforward. If the crew of the Fortune counted themselves lucky after the drama in Sydney, they were about to discover what fate had in store for them, an incredible journey in and around a bizarre storm that wandered through time. A short journey, perhaps, but one that in fact took many, many years and ended with a golden fortune inspired by the small book Kit Blaney stole from Harry Decker.
Kneeling down, William pulled a few weeds from the base of the gravestones. He stood, stepped back and smiled at the lies carved into the two stones.
CHRISTOPHER
CHARLES
BLANEY
KAREN
JANE
BLANEY
(nee BARLOW)
Born Sydney
13th May 1820
Born Sydney
21st December 1822
Died Marlin Estate
26th August 1895
Died Marlin Estate
16th October 1908
Time shall not…
…keep us apart
THE END
Acknowledgements
TimeStorm began life at a clearly defined point many years ago, when my brother Tony asked the perfect ‘what if?’ question. As we watched a replica 18th century sailing ship enter Sydney Harbour, he turned to me and said, “what if that was a real convict ship?” Blaney, Redmond, Karen, Cross and the crew and convicts aboard HMS Marlin sprang from those words. So thanks, Tony, for all eight of them.
Thanks, too, to J.P Smith, my good friend, mentor and fine American novelist whose work (read his books!) and support have been invaluable. When he assured me TimeStorm was ready to be published, I finally believed it was actually possible.
My undying gratitude goes to my wife Belinda and daughter Sophia, whose love, support and inspiration has always been constant and essential to both my life and my writing. Belinda is also a wonderful and exceptionally honest editor of my work and her guidance and advice is unerringly accurate (which can be very annoying). Peter and the rest of the wonderful crew at Elsewhen Press will never know how much work she saved them! (I still managed to generate a fair bit for them, though).
And finally, thanks to my parents, Marianne and the late Dave Harrison, who always believed in me. I will be eternally grateful to dad for introducing me to Horatio Hornblower and Nicholas Lord Ramage, to Richard Bolitho and Jack Aubrey, all of them classic swashbuckling, seafaring heroes who continue to fill my imagination with adventure…
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