The Stuart Sapphire
ALANNA KNIGHT
Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
About the Author
By Alanna Knight
Copyright
Acknowledgements
In the third of Tam Eildor’s time-quests through history, the following books have provided invaluable sources of information.
The Prince and his Pleasures by Andrew Barlow; The Encyclopedia of Brighton by Timothy Carder; Prince of Pleasure by Saul David; The Regency Underworld by Donald A Low; Maria Fitzherbert: the Secret Wife of George IV by James Munson; George IV, The Grand Entertainment by Stephen Parissien; Caroline and Charlotte by Alison Plowden; A Prince’s Passion: The Life of the Royal Pavilion by Jessica Rutherford.
My grateful thanks to son Kevin and daughter-in-law Patricia for their tireless guided tours of Brighton and Lewes and boundless enthusiasm for my many visits. My love to them and to Chloe, Julia and Woody, as always.
For David Shelley
Chapter One
Voices…
It was their voices, the stink of their breath and sweat that aroused him. He had made contact.
‘Boots – by God. Look at them. New!’
‘And see the shirt on him, that’s fine linen.’
‘And the breeches. Leather – we’ll have those off him.’
A coarse laugh. ‘He’ll not need them where he’s going.’
Was he dead? Had he died in transit, was that it? But rough hands dragging off his boots – he felt that. He was alive, the stench all around him was real enough. His face in semi-darkness did not interest them and he opened his eyes cautiously.
Screams and moans issuing from somewhere below. A moving floor – the creak of wooden timbers…
That other smell – the sea. He was on a ship!
Something had gone seriously wrong with his time-quest.
The men were cursing, trying to drag him upright to remove his clothes.
Wherever he was in time and place now made little difference. He had to escape and what his captors didn’t realise was that Tam Eildor from the twenty-third century could move much more swiftly than any man alive in the year 1811. Future science had conquered both time and space, and with space went gravity and weightlessness.
On his feet in one bound, before his captors could regain their balance, he cracked their two astonished heads together. Before they fell, moaning and cursing, he was off leaping away, thankful that they hadn’t got him below decks in this accursed ship.
He ran, considering his escape route. To his certain knowledge this was the first time he had been aboard a ship at sea. In less dangerous circumstances he might have relished this as an exciting new prospect to explore.
Pausing in his flight, he considered the gently swaying masts above his head. Devoid of sails, it didn’t look as if this particular ship had been at sea for a very long time and the deck, with its air of neglect, of dirt and decaying timbers, confirmed his suspicions.
Cautiously he leaned over the rusting ship’s rail. In the gathering darkness pinpoints of light indicated landfall. This massive ship, with no sails, was at anchor and Tam was relieved to see that the distant shore was within swimming distance.
Behind him the swaying deck was still deserted. His captors obviously had not yet regained their equilibrium, but he could still hear the screams and moans from below, his stomach retching at the stench as he realised the appalling truth of his present circumstances.
Something had indeed gone awry with his time-quest. By some serious miscalculation he had landed in what was obviously the right period but in the wrong place. Instead of Regency Brighton, his destination, he was marooned offshore somewhere along the English south coast on a particularly unpleasant vessel. At a guess, transportation accommodation for convicts about to be shipped off to the Colonies or Van Diemen’s Land.
He moved swiftly, taking great care around the ship’s rail. He was sad about the boots, but should he have to swim for it, he would be better without them. Far below there was a heavy cable leading to the submerged anchor, and attached to it a jolly-boat – presumably to ferry the jailers across to the delights awaiting behind those far-off shore lights.
That would do for him too, he decided as angry voices and scurrying footsteps indicated that his captors had recovered their senses and raised the alarm.
Not a moment to lose. He was about to swing over the side using the cable to reach the boat when he noticed a small figure crouched nearby.
A child’s face looked up at him, a terrified face, boy or girl, he didn’t know which. An instant of recognition and then it was gone.
‘Please help me, sir. Don’t leave me here. They’ll kill me.’
A language he understood and with relief he recognised that if this child was a captive then his calculations were right and that distant hump of greyness was the English coast.
The footsteps were nearer now, the shouts angry.
‘Come along, then,’ he said.
A twelve-year-old boy in breeches, a coarse shirt many sizes too large for him, an unruly mop of fair curls. He stood up, trembling.
Tam pointed. ‘See that boat down there. That’s where we’re heading.’
The boy shuddered, drew back from the rail. ‘I cannot – I cannot swim.’
The voices were too close for comfort. In another moment they would be seen. He didn’t care to dwell on what the captors would do then.
Tam made an impatient gesture. ‘Hang on to me. I’m going to jump.’
‘No!’
‘All right. Stay and be killed.’
No time now for the niceties of a tidy descent via the cable. And with a stifled moan he took for assent, Tam seized his feather-light human burden and jumped into the water.
They emerged gasping for breath, several yards away from the ship, swaying massively at anchor, and with the boy still clinging to his neck. Tam reached the side of the boat that hid them from the view of the men who were now searching for them, staring over the side of the ship’s rail far above their heads.
At his side, the boy was crying softly. Tam whispered, ‘Be quiet and keep your head down. Hang on while I swim round and get the line loose. We’ll be safe soon.’ (That was a lie, but he could do without a snivelling child on his hands at the moment.)
Fortunately the thick rope didn’t look as if it would be too difficult to untie. He swam back to the boy.
‘Is it all right? We’ll get away – won’t we?’
All that Tam could reply was, ‘I hope so,’ reassurance he was far from feeling.
The boy sighed and was about to climb into the boat.
‘No,’ said Tam. ‘We must wait—’
‘Wait?’ wailed the lad. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘Better be freezing than dead
,’ was the grim reply. ‘We must wait until it’s completely dark.’
‘Why? When will that be?’
‘An interesting question.’ Even as he said the words, Tam would have given much to know the time of day and whether the heavy black sky above their heads heralded growing darkness or an approaching storm.
‘If they see the boat drifting away, they’ll know we’re on it,’ he continued patiently. ‘Then we’ll either be recaptured or shot. Which would you prefer?’
A stifled sob was the only response.
Carefully Tam scanned the ship’s rail high above them. The faces gone, he would take a chance that their captors were now extending their search to the far side of the ship.
‘Very well. You can get aboard. You’re small, so you can hide under that tarpaulin.’
‘But—’
Tam’s patience was running out. ‘Stop arguing and do as I say.’
The boy scrambled into the boat, and stared down at Tam. ‘What about you? Where are you going? You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’
Tam wished with all his heart that he could do just that. It was going to be hard enough to escape even with the dark sky indicating nightfall and trusting that the missing jolly-boat would not be spotted until morning.
He could have managed it on his own, but with a terrified child to deal with the odds were against him. ‘I’ll be close at hand,’ he said. ‘Right here.’
‘In the water. You’ll freeze.’
Tam decided not to argue, aware that once inside the boat he would be trapped. In the water, he could swim, still have a chance and sniffing the air was encouraging. At least he had landed at the right season.
The water was still warm, suggesting the close of what had been a hot summer’s day on land. He was quite comfortable and he obviously didn’t have the boy’s problems with feeling the cold.
Taking his bearings, he was thankful there was no moon. If his calculations were right, it might soon be completely dark, safe to steer the boat towards the shore.
And while they waited he had better think out very carefully his next move and what had gone wrong. As excellent as the maps of the past were in his own century, they had not taken into account some form of coastal erosion, and that the Brighton shoreline had vanished under a mile of sea, or whatever was the nautical measure.
While he was deciding on his next move, the scenario changed dramatically, confirming his worst fears: that the blackness above them was not only approaching all-concealing night but something less welcome and considerably more dangerous. Heavy raindrops and the distant rumble of thunder hinted that the ship was in the path of a rapidly approaching storm.
The sea recognised the signs with a sudden respectful heaving and swirling of waves in what had been millpond smooth around them.
‘You had better come aboard.’ The small white face peered at him from under the tarpaulin. ‘You’re getting very wet,’ was the added somewhat obvious comment.
Tam looked upwards as lightning snarled across the sky, throwing briefly into tremulous life the massive ship, its timbers creaking above their heads, sending up spray and agitating the surrounding area. Now clinging on to the jolly-boat brought the added danger of being dashed against the ship’s side.
Again he glanced upwards. The ship’s rail seemed deserted. No doubt their captors, or whatever guards normally patrolled, had taken refuge from the storm and were now below decks.
He decided to take the boy’s advice.
Shivering, he scrambled aboard, under the tarpaulin held by the boy who said, rather triumphantly, ‘You’re the one who’s freezing now. See that jacket on the bench – too big for me. You should put it on.’
And Tam was aware for the first time that he was cold, more from the icy rain than from the sea.
He could just make out the braid of some kind of naval uniform. It smelt of sweat but not too badly, he thought, as he struggled into it, wondering as he did so why it had been left in this small boat. No doubt stolen with some felonious intent, perhaps to sell to a French spy.
‘Are we going now?’ asked the boy plaintively as the ship swayed ominously above them.
‘Going where?’
‘You said we’d row away, escape when it got dark,’ was the reproachful whisper.
‘Dark, yes, but I hadn’t bargained for a storm.’
‘They wouldn’t see us in this. We’d be safe,’ said the boy encouragingly.
‘Are you quite mad?’ demanded Tam. ‘We’ll have to wait until this blows over. And can you handle an oar?’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘I – think so.’
‘And I hope so. Because it’ll need both of us to reach the shore.’
If the child was afraid, he now had it under control. Just as well, thought Tam, as deciding on his next move became increasingly difficult by the minute. A certain confusion of thought occurred which he recognised again as the requirements of the time-quest: that present memory links with his own century faded quite swiftly once contact was made with his chosen time period.
Soon the last vestiges of his familiar world would disappear, abandoning him to the past world he had chosen to visit, taking nothing with him apart from the clothes he was wearing. His only contact was a tiny microchip inside his wrist, the last emergency.
Suddenly he was curious about the child so silent at his side, and above the noise of the storm he asked: ‘What were you doing up there – on the ship?’
The boy sighed and turned his head towards the once handsome man o’war, battle-scarred and proud, that had in antiquity sunk so low.
‘It’s one of the hulks, a convict ship,’ was the whispered reply. ‘You know—’
‘I don’t – you tell me!’
‘We’re waiting to be transported to the Colonies.’
‘And what had you done to deserve such a fate?’
‘I – I stole some bread. I was starving.’
The present situation was now becoming clear. In the course of his fascination with the past, Tam had read about the dreaded prison hulks without the least intimation of the horror of finding himself on one.
The few minutes he had spent above decks was enough of that experience to reassure him that however off-course the judgement of his landing, at least he was in the right century.
A period when London’s criminal population seriously threatened to outnumber its law-abiding citizens and with no police force yet invented to deal with crime, prisons were overcrowded, murderers mixed indiscriminately with unfortunate men and women incarcerated for small debts. And children, like the lad before him – for stealing a loaf of bread.
England did not believe in prisons. What England wanted was to rid itself of the problem by sending overseas any who escaped the gallows. The dumping grounds were originally the plantations of Virginia and the other American colonies. During the War of Independence all available ships were otherwise occupied and someone came up with the plan to imprison convicts awaiting transportation – to Botany Bay or that dreaded place of no return, Norfolk Island – in the hulks of two old ships moored in the Thames, where wrong-doers could be gainfully employed cleansing the river by raising sand, soil and gravel ‘for the benefit of navigation’.
The idea immediately caught on of converting ships no longer seaworthy in to crude prisons, which cost far less than building new ones, and this idea became so popular that it extended beyond London to mooring places off the south coast where these hulks were also convenient for housing French soldiers and sailors who were prisoners of war.
Conditions were unspeakably horrific, with unwashed men and women packed together very closely on three decks, breathing putrid air. At night, the hatches were screwed down and the convicts left in darkness. New arrivals were stripped of their clothes and any other possessions before being thrown down in to the hellhole, as the lowest deck was known. In due course, if they survived death by jailfever, they progressed to the middle deck with its sickly and disease
d occupants. Then at last to the upper deck, for either transportation or to await and pray for the unlikely miracle of a reprieve.
And that, Tam decided, was where he and the lad came in. The fact that the jailers were stripping him of his clothes meant that he was recognised as a newcomer to be speedily assigned to the lowest deck. The lad too must have been awaiting their grim attentions.
He was about to ask his unwelcome companion for confirmation of this fact, when he realised that the storm had lessened, the sea no longer boiled around them with waves like the giant white fingers of some angry sea-god.
‘I think it is time to make a move. Ready?’ And so saying, Tam, after a cautious look at the still empty ship’s rail, inched forward and, after some anxious moments, managed to undo the heavy rope linking boat to ship.
Pushing aside the tarpaulin he nodded towards one of the oars. ‘Take it.’
‘I’ll try,’ was the uncertain reply. ‘It’s very heavy.’
‘That will be all right once we are moving, the sea will keep it afloat,’ said Tam with a confidence he was far from feeling.
The departing storm had left not the inky darkness but the steely twilight of a long summer evening in which they would be clearly visible, an added danger to their escape, thought Tam, should any decide to stroll on the deck.
However, a glimpse of candlelight from an upper-deck cabin window brought faint sounds of drunken laughter, indicating that the jailers were off duty and too busy with their noisy leisure to notice any sounds from beyond the ship.
Tam looked at the boy struggling with the oar. ‘Steer away. We’ll be safe soon. What’s your name, lad?’
‘Jem, sir. Is it far?’
Tam thought it would be easy, rowing steadily towards the shore. But distance was deceptive, those white cliffs further away than he had imagined.
‘Is it far?’ the boy shouted again.
A difficult question to answer. Even as he thought of a plausible statement that would not reduce his companion’s spirits – or his somewhat ineffectual rowing, the boy screamed and dropped the oar.
Tam saw it floating away and cursed him steadily.
The Stuart Sapphire Page 1