by Alaric Bond
But the fact remained that there was something about this particular enemy that had affected Banks in a subtle but important way. The French captain was clearly no fool; he had consistently handled his ship with flair and ability, while proving himself to be a determined and wily opponent. His ship was also obviously well-manned: the seamanship needed to clear that anchorage with a damaged rig had been exemplary, especially as it was undertaken whilst under fire from powerful shore batteries, while her gunnery was superior to any Banks had encountered in a foreign vessel. Banks guessed that the entire crew would have been hand-picked especially for such a mission; he was to face the best of the best, and it was a daunting prospect.
Of course he had met such odds and worse in the past, so why now was he feeling the pre-fight nerves of a raw recruit? Perhaps it was having Sarah with him? He had never fought a battle in a similar situation; she would not be physically on board but, even with her ashore, he feared there was little chance of the single mindedness he always relied on in action. Or maybe it was his own people: the officers and men he had come to know and trust for what might well prove to be a little too long. There could be no doubt of their efficiency – seldom had he sailed with such well-trained and reliable men. But they were all in desperate need of a rest, and the odd evening of shore leave on what was effectively a military installation was by no means sufficient. A couple had already run, one of which to be later discovered murdered. The two events might be connected but that would remain uncertain until the other deserter was finally caught. Banks was still unwilling to believe that a member of Scylla's crew would wantonly take another's life, and was harbouring a private hope that the killing may yet turn out the work of a Company soldier or civilian. But even accepting that there was a bad one amongst his people, the vast majority were sound enough. All they lacked was a spell of rest in a proper English harbour, and that was the one thing he could not supply.
He noticed that Caulfield and King were regarding him strangely, and remembered that he had been asked a question. “Yes, we shall sail as soon as we are able,” he replied, trying hard to make the words sound more positive than his thoughts. “We shall have to work the men up of course; they have been idle for far too long. But with the powder and shot promised, I see no reason why all should not be back to full fighting fitness before the end of the week.”
It was clear that his words had inspired them, and both men nodded approvingly. But however long they had known him, and whatever the trust that lay between the three, Banks knew they were being fooled, and felt guilty as a consequence.
* * *
The horse had been showing signs of discomfort for some while and David, the driver, had already rested him twice. But it was now less than two miles to the Clarkeson's estate, and mainly downhill, so they decided to continue. Then, as they were entering yet another area of forest, he stopped once more, and began to cough terribly.
“Oh leave him be,” Julia told the servant, who was trying to persuade the animal off the path. “It is not so terribly far; we shall just have to complete the journey on foot.”
“That would be fine,” Kate said. “It is a splendid day for a walk, but I am concerned about our charge,” she added, looking directly at Sarah. “Do you feel up to some exercise, my dear? In your condition it might not be the best of activities.”
“I am happy to walk, but would wish to take some necessary time first,” she replied, blushing slightly. “It is early in my confinement for such a thing to be a problem, I own.”
“Well, what say David here goes on to the Clarkeson's,” Julia suggested, clambering out of the vehicle. “He can set off now, and return with another cart and animal. We shall follow in our own time and meet him on the way. Would that suit, David?”
The man, who had been comforting the horse, turned back to the women and smiled readily. “That would be fine, Miss Julia.” he said. “Rufus here, ain't so bad, but he’s in no mood for more pullin'. I should have known before we took him.”
“Never mind,” Kate said, determined that nothing further would spoil the day. “You go on ahead to the Clarkeson's. Take some water if you wish, there are two bottles in addition to that for the animal. We shall meet again shortly; the horse will do well enough here.”
“You do not wish me to stay with you, Miss Julia?” the black man asked.
“Lord no, David!” his mistress laughed. “Little can happen to us hereabouts, and if it does, well, there are three of us: we can more than look after ourselves!”
* * *
Timmons watched him go. From his vantage point less than a hundred yards off, he had even caught snatches of their conversation, and was in no confusion as to what was happening. He also knew that time would be needed before the servant was properly out of hearing, and time was something he had plenty of. The women would not make as fast a progress as the servant; he reckoned on half an hour, and there would be a good mile or more distance between the two groups. Then he would just have to wait for a modicum of cover.
But when one suddenly jumped down from the carriage and broke away from the other two his mind began to recalculate. She seemed to be heading straight for him; that, or the massive oak he was hiding behind. Timmons began to grow concerned; he did not think he had been spotted, but such positive action raised doubts, and he lowered himself further into the thick vegetation.
He had been following them for some while, keeping track of the buggy as it crept along the rough track. Through open areas he would stay back in the last of forest cover, then sprint forward when they reached another patch of vegetation. Such stalking was easy, especially when the quarry was oblivious and otherwise distracted. Even now, the thicket where he hid was surely dense enough, and his clothing blended perfectly with the dry bracken and rough gorse. The woman came on, though, and was apparently making directly for where he stood: his body tensed further.
He might have been seen, or even sensed: such things were known to have happened before even if her expression, which was getting clearer by the second, was completely blank, and not of a person expecting to discover another near by. There was something vaguely familiar in the face, but Timmons' brain was fully set on what was about to take place. She had closed to within ten feet, and he was just getting ready to run when, totally without warning, she took a sweeping glance about before hitching up her skirts, and squatting down in the midst of a small clearing.
His heart continued to pound as he watched, and slowly emotions emerged that would have been far better controlled. His prey, so perfectly presented, was half facing him, but clearly distracted and, as he stole out from behind his cover, did not look up. The well-remembered thrill was now passing through his body, and driving him on as effectively as any conscious intention. He pulled the heavy, sand-filled cosh from his pocket and wrapped the lanyard about his wrist, already knowing that this was going to be easy.
* * *
“Gracious, whatever was that?” Julia said, after the single and suddenly curtailed scream echoed about the small forest. She looked to Kate who had been trying to persuade the horse to take some water, but the woman was already charging off through the undergrowth in roughly the direction that Sarah had taken. Julia followed; both were wearing long dresses and, with no defined path, their progress was slow. There was movement up ahead, however, and soon the shape of a figure standing next to a large oak tree could be made out. It was a man. He had certainly not been the cause of the noise, although he may well have instigated it.
Kate slowed and put one hand out to stop Julia, who dutifully came to a panting halt next to her.
“Wait here,” she hissed. “If there is any trouble, make for the road, and try and catch your servant.”
Julia's face was now white. “What are you going to do?” she asked, but Kate was already moving off.
“Sarah?” she shouted. “Sarah, are you there?”
* * *
Timmons ducked down at the first shout. In front of him, what
he now recognised as the captain's wife lay sprawled on the ground. Her limbs were thrown out like a tossed rag doll and a small trail of blood was starting to flow from the side of her head. The shout came again but, even if he cursed silently to himself, his ire was indisputably up and there was little he did not feel capable of. The cosh was still in his hand, and he spun it round in the air as a second woman entered the clearing and looked directly at him.
“Timmons!” she shouted, and he felt a moment of acute panic. It was the surgeon's wife; probably the last person he had expected to see. From a distance he had not recognised any of the faces, neither had he tried: faces actually meant little to him. But Mrs Manning was known to be a tough old bird, and he might have thought twice about making a move had he known she was about. “Whatever are you doing here, Timmons?” she continued, still pinning him with her expression. “And what have you done to Lady Banks?”
Now immature guilt replaced his initial fear. It was as if he had been caught in a mildly immoral act, not having just taken a swipe at the captain's wife. The woman lay before him now, her legs obscenely bared almost as high as the knees. He spun the cosh in the air again, more in bravado than any attempt to intimidate or threaten, and was surprised when Mrs Manning immediately drew back. Then he began to grow confident.
He stepped forward, over the body, and towards her. She retreated further and Timmons knew again that there would be no problem. She had turned and was trying to run almost as he reached her, and there was a scream from further off as his left hand closed upon the woman's arm. The third could wait; he was suitably occupied for the time being, and nothing was going to stop him.
His cosh came up, and Mrs Manning went to fend it off, with an ineffectual wave of her right hand. But he was far too good for her, far too strong, far too experienced: he was in total control.
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.
Chapter Eighteen
Timmons 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 su
rge 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.