Claim the Kingdom

by John Fletcher

  ‘Let’s get ourselves something there,’ Cash suggested.

  They were hungry and thirsty after their day’s work but Jack looked at the place dubiously. The sound of raised voices and laughter came through the open doorway. The light inside was smoky and dim.

  ‘Not much of a place,’ he said.

  ‘I’m half-starved. I’m not waiting till we’re back in Sydney before I have something.’

  He went in, Jack at his heels. It was a single room with a beaten earth floor and rough wooden walls, barrels piled up almost to the ceiling behind a low counter. A dozen or so customers were crowded inside – all convicts, by the look of them. The air stank of smoke and unwashed bodies. Candles set in iron sconces cast a murky glow.

  Conversation shut off abruptly as the occupants of the room saw the strangers. Their voices loud in the uneasy silence, Cash and Jack each ordered a hot pie and a pannikin of rum from the big-shouldered, shaven-headed man who seemed to be in charge. They stood, drinks in hand, elbows on the counter, and looked about them as they waited for the food.

  Most of the customers were men but in one corner a roughly-dressed girl of perhaps fifteen, lank fair hair hanging over her face, sat with a man who had his hand inside her dress. No one seemed to be taking the slightest notice of them but the girl saw Jack’s eye on her and screeched with laughter, throwing her hair off her face with a thin hand, and shouted to him across the room. ‘Wait your turn, you. I’ll get around to you directly.’

  Jack flushed and turned away and she laughed again in triumphant mockery. She slapped the man’s hand to one side, got to her feet and staggered drunkenly through the silent crowd until she reached the counter. She swayed in front of Jack, her bodice open almost to her waist.

  ‘Fancy me, do yer? ’ere.’

  She seized his hand, thrust it into the open dress and grinned up at him, face white, eyes the palest blue.

  ‘’ow does that feel, then?’ And rubbed the captured hand to and fro across her naked breasts.

  Jack snatched his hand away, face flushed with fury. He raised his clenched fist.

  ‘Get back to your kennel, you damned whore!’

  He swung the fist as the girl cowered but Cash caught it before it reached her.

  ‘Go and sit down,’ he told her sharply. ‘Before you get into more trouble than you can handle.’

  Realising she was safe from the blow, the cocky look came back into her face. She tossed her head at him. ‘Buy me a drink, mister?’

  Scowling, the man in the corner of the room got to his feet. Sassing the newcomers was one thing, staying to drink with them was something else. Like the girl, he had obviously had plenty. He swayed blinking in the dim light. ‘You come back ’ere, Cuddy Marshall.’

  The girl looked at him over her shoulder. ‘You can wait,’ she shrieked back. ‘I’m mixin’ with the toffs, ’ere.’ She turned and grinned at Cash. ‘Tha’s right, i’n’ it, mister?’

  ‘Get back to your friend,’ Cash told her. ‘He’s getting impatient.’

  ‘Poo,’ she said, ‘I knows ’ow to ’andle ’im.’

  Cash doubted it. Either way, they would soon find out. The man came shouldering his way through the crowd towards them, a big man with a heavy body, scarred face ugly with anger.

  ‘Trouble,’ Cash said to Jack out of the side of his mouth. ‘Watch out.’

  He put his drink on the counter and turned to face the man, shoulders squared, fists ready, stomach muscles sucked tight.

  The man was of a height with Cash. Swaying, the stink of spirits on his breath, he glared at him out of bloodshot eyes. ‘What you doin’ with my girl, mister?’

  ‘I’m doing nothing with her.’

  ‘’op it, Dan,’ the girl said. ‘This gent’s buyin’ me a drink.’

  ‘Not even that,’ Cash said.

  The man did not move.

  ‘I told you to ’op it,’ she said again.

  Without turning his head, the man back-handed her violently across the face, sending her crashing back across the room, her pale eyes wide, the imprint of his hand flaming on her white skin.

  ‘Now for you,’ he said to Cash.

  Cash told him evenly, ‘You strike me, I give you my word I’ll see you hang for it.’

  The man sneered. ‘Can’t fight your own battles, eh?’

  ‘Think carefully,’ Cash told him, weight on the balls of his feet.

  The man swayed and belched. ‘Might be worth it at that.’

  ‘You think so, give it a try.’

  The pot man grabbed the drunk’s arm. ‘You come away from there, Dan ’awkins. Go sit down and be’ave yourself.’ He looked at Cash. ‘Excuse him, sir. Had a drop too many, he has.’

  His arm held tight, Dan moved away but not without a face-saving last shot.

  ‘Word o’ warnin’, mister. Leave my girl alone.’

  Jack pushed forward, glaring at him. ‘A word of warning to you, too, fellow. Beat her like that, she won’t be your girl for long. Or anyone else’s.’

  Dan twisted himself free. He bunched fists like mallets and thrust his unshaven jowl into Jack’s face. ‘I want your advice, mister, I’ll ask for it.’

  The pot man grabbed him again. They turned and swayed away, Dan muttering.

  Cash breathed out carefully, feeling his muscles relax. He took up his drink and sipped it, looking about the room.

  The pies came. He asked what they owed. The price was ridiculous, extortionate, and he raised his eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t planning on buying the shop.’

  The man shrugged.

  It was not worth getting into another argument about it. Cash pushed a couple of coins across the counter and walked outside to eat, Jack at his side. Behind them, a babble of conversation broke out at once.

  The night air was cool and fresh after the fug in the crowded room. They could hear the river sucking at the reeds along the bank. There was the smell of mud, of weed, of water. Somewhere a night bird called, two notes, monotonously repeated, and a fish splashed.

  ‘I told you we shouldn’t have gone in there,’ Jack said sulkily.

  ‘We were safe enough. He wouldn’t have dared try anything.’

  Except that last stupid remark of yours almost made him forget that.

  He finished the pie and was wiping the crumbs from his mouth when a tall, angular man walked out of the shadows and came towards them.

  Cash faced him. ‘Yes?’

  Thin lips twitched in what was perhaps meant as a smile. ‘If the gentlemen have a moment …’

  ‘That depends what you want us for.’

  ‘I hear there was a misunderstanding just now. I would like to apologise for that.’

  Again the skeletal smile. The man rubbed his hands. Something in his manner – ingratiation that seemed more like mockery – grated.

  ‘Thank you. If it’s any concern of yours.’

  ‘It is, indeed. The shop is mine.’ The man took off his hat. Cash noticed he was wearing good quality clothes. ‘Ira Thornton,’ he introduced himself, making no attempt to shake hands.

  A convict, then, or one very recently. Cash had already learnt that convicts never offered you their hand, too used to having it rejected, no doubt.

  Cash nodded. ‘Cash and Jack Trernain. No need to apologise, Mr Thornton. One of your customers was a little drunk. No harm done.’

  Again the rubbing hands. ‘Nevertheless, I feel I owe the gentlemen something for the embarrassment.’

  ‘There was no embarrassment.’

  ‘The girl,’ Thornton said. ‘Attractive, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Flagrant.’ Jack breathed through his nose. ‘An abomination.’

  Thornton’s expression did not change. ‘Just so. But attractive, I would say. Not in her behaviour, perhaps. Not to gentlemen as … fastidious as yourselves’ – was it Cash’s imagination, or did the pale eyes slide momentarily towards Jack? – ‘but physically, I would say so. And young, of course.’

  ‘What are y
ou saying?’ Cash asked.

  Now Thornton’s eyes were fixed on him. ‘Let me be honest with the gentlemen. You are Captain Tremain’s sons. You were very nearly assaulted in a shop that I operate. That could cause me a great deal of embarrassment.’

  ‘It was not your fault.’

  ‘But how would it look? Gentlemen, I’ll tell you. It would look bad. Very bad. I don’t want problems of that nature. I don’t need them. So I am offering you some small recompense.’

  ‘No recompense is nec –’

  Jack cut across his refusal. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Thornton’s eyes moved to Jack’s face. ‘Why, the girl, of course.’

  Jack’s rage erupted. ‘How dare you!’

  Thornton stared at him. ‘I had not realised the gentleman was so … particular.’ A sneer? Certainly, the hint of something burned at the back of the pale eyes.

  Jack thrust himself forward as Cash moved to restrain him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Thornton stood his ground. ‘Ask yourself that.’

  Jack lunged, breaking free from Cash’s arm. Thornton stepped back. One foot slipped off the bank. Jack shoved him. Off-balance, Thornton fell on his back in the shallows.

  Cursing under his breath, Cash leapt forward to the very edge of the bank and leant out over the water, arm outstretched. ‘Give me your hand.’

  Thornton ignored him. He scrambled to his feet, water pouring from the drenched clothes. He struggled to the bank and climbed out onto the grass. He wiped the front of his coat, trying ineffectually to free it of mud and broken weed.

  ‘A courteous offer.’ He spoke in a whisper that was like a scream in the darkness. Rage flowed from him like the river water from his drenched clothes. ‘I need not have spoken. I need have done nothing. I felt only that you had been inconvenienced and wanted to put it to rights. And now this.’ There was froth on his lips and his rage was all the worse for being so quiet. ‘The days are past when you can treat people like this.’

  Jack was as hot as ever. ‘What are you going to do about it, man? Send your seconds to call on me?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake keep quiet!’ Cash glared at him. Ever since the girl had approached them, Jack had been filled with madness, was a stranger Cash did not want to know.

  Thornton’s eyes found Jack’s. Through the bubbles and water that ran down his face like tears he whispered, ‘One of these days, Mr Tremain, I may do just that.’

  He stared at them a moment longer then turned away. He drew his ruined coat and his dignity about him, walked up the bank and disappeared into the darkness.

  Cash looked after him. A moment earlier, he would have been willing to put him into the river himself. Now he felt pity for the man’s humiliation and a sense of apprehension. Behind the frothed lips, the whispered rage, there was an overwhelming malevolence. They had made an enemy. The knowledge made him angry.

  He turned on Jack. ‘What’s the matter with you? Ever since that girl came across to us –’

  ‘Didn’t you see what she did?’ In his own way, Jack was frothing, too.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Cash said impatiently. ‘You saw what she was, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘And what was she?’ Savagely.

  ‘You said it yourself. A whore. How’d you expect her to behave?’

  ‘She is a child of God.’

  Cash shrugged. ‘She’s also a whore.’

  ‘For which people like Thornton are to blame.’

  ‘You don’t know he had anything to do with her.’

  ‘He offered her, didn’t he? You think he was planning to pay for her?’

  Cash couldn’t see that it mattered either way. ‘These things happen. It’s a fact of life.’

  Jack lifted one finger. ‘Inasmuch as you do it unto one of the least of these my little ones …’ His voice broke, his face twisted. He took two steps, walking as though in pain. ‘God,’ he muttered. ‘Dear God.’

  Cash watched him, frowning. Embarrassment he would have understood, even indignation, but the savage rage followed by this anguish seemed out of proportion to what had happened. What had she done, after all? Jack should have laughed at her, squeezed her tits, sent her on her way. No one would have minded, least of all the girl. As it was, he thought, if he had not been there to stop him, Jack might have killed her.

  ‘Dear God forgive us all,’ Jack said, his eyes hunted.

  Cash eyed him uneasily. Jack had been in a strange mood all day. For the first time Cash wondered whether the fury and now this irrational anguish might not have something to do with whatever had happened last night. If it was Gwen he saw, he thought, I hope she’s safe. The notion startled him.

  Jack? he asked himself. Jack? Don’t be a fool, he thought. Jack would never hurt her or anyone.

  ‘We should be getting back,’ he said. ‘The boat will be waiting.’

  ‘I’ve unfinished business with Ira Thornton,’ Jack declared ominously.

  Cash shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Not tonight, no.’ But some time.’

  ‘I have a fear you may be right,’ Cash said.

  *

  Inside the tavern, Thornton had changed out of his wet clothes. He showed none of the rage he felt at the two young oafs who had insulted him, of his determination to settle his account with them. His face was expressionless as he talked in a low voice to Jed Smales, the shaven-headed bruiser he employed to serve the grog, handle the whores, look after the place generally.

  ‘I ’ear one o’ them Tremains got a girl what’s a convict. Know owt about that?’

  ‘Came out on the transport with ’em.’ Smales slapped a measure of rum on the counter and checked the money in the palm of his heavy hand before shoving it into a drawer. ‘Girl called Gwen.’

  Thornton nodded, gratified. So the rumour was right. And the Tremains were tied up with Silas Pike of Centaur, which his contact on board had told him was leaving port in the next day or two. Perhaps he could use the girl to get back at the lot of them. Pike and the Tremains in one hit – that would please Hagwood.

  ‘Us needs to talk ’bout that,’ he said. ‘Summat I wants thee to do.’

  *

  All the way down-river Jack stood at the rail, watching the bank slide past in the darkness.

  The girl’s taunting expression. The threat. The urgent need of violence. All echoed through his head.

  He had followed the shadowed figure of the man until he stood in the doorway of the hut. The single room was bare of furniture. A soiled covering was laid upon the earth floor. On it – a young girl, face and body deathly white in the candlelight. White as the belly of a fish. White as a corpse. Scrawny, with meagre breasts.

  So young.

  She neither smiled nor spoke but lay watching him, head a little to one side on the fragile stalk of her neck, legs and arms open. Spread open before him.

  The hut stank.

  He looked at the girl. Shadowed eyes in the white face. The guttering light gleamed on the wet of her mouth, her eyes.

  Lust like a sickness.

  The man named a price. He nodded, not listening, eyes on the girl. The child.

  He went inside the hut. The door shut behind him.

  Later, the moon, glaring bone-white out of the dark sky as Jack walked home. The air warm and still and filled with the scents and murmurs of the night – the smell of grass, the shrilling of the cicadas, the lonely calling of birds.

  Jack’s mind filled with images of blood.

  He would not allow himself to think of what had happened although awareness of it flooded him like a deadly tide. Would not think, would not feel, would not admit.

  The knowledge was there all the same. The knowledge and the sickness. Blood, too, in the memory – not of the mind, which would not remember, but of the body, which could not forget.

  The blood stained the moon and the night. He knew himself to be filthy and degraded. He cried in a huge, silent voice to God to cle
anse him, to forgive him. He prayed for the strength and the grace to resist temptation when next it came.

  He watched the bank slip silently past in the darkness.

  With God’s grace I shall be whole, he prayed beneath the moon’s white skull. With God’s grace.

  NINE

  It was two more days before Silas Pike declared himself satisfied with the repairs to Centaur’s rudder and made ready for sea.

  The word coming out of the grog shops along the waterfront was that he was not willing to wait any longer for a cargo that never seemed to materialise. He would sail for the Cape and bring back a cargo of general supplies for those who could afford to pay for them.

  A succession of small boats ferried to and fro across the placid water between Centaur and the shore, bringing supplies for the three months’ voyage to Cape Town. Sailors paid their boozy farewells to the taverns where they had been drinking their pay during their stay in port. The girls of the waterfront did a good trade. Three convicts who had tried to smuggle themselves aboard were handed over to the authorities.

  On the morning of 19 February, three days after the governor’s ball for the Spanish visitors, Centaur had brought herself up to her anchors, the cables up and down in the water ready for hauling, when a contingent of soldiers came aboard under the command of Ensign Rupert Huggett.

  Pike emerged from his cabin. He had met Huggett a couple of times. He knew him to be a fool and a bully but now he had the full weight of authority behind him and had to be treated with respect.

  Pike smiled at him, gritting his teeth. ‘What’s the problem, Mr Huggett?’

  ‘Looking for escapees.’

  ‘We had three. We handed them over.’

  ‘Maybe there are more.’

  ‘Not of our doing if there are.’

  Huggett showed his teeth. ‘That’s as maybe. Have a search all the same, shall we?’

  ‘I hope it won’t take too long,’ Pike said, striving for civility. ‘I don’t want to miss the tide.’