The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger
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Harbinger
Book Four of The Hurst Chronicles
Robin Crumby
Copyright © 2020 by Robin Crumby
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Harbinger is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Newsletter
About the Author
Also by Robin Crumby
“Behold, the day of the Lord comes,
cruel, with wrath and fierce anger,
to make the land a desolation
and to destroy its sinners from it.”
Isaiah 13:9
Chapter 1
Hurst Castle was a godforsaken place when the weather closed in. Surrounded by the sea on all sides, it felt so isolated here. Prevailing southwesterly winds had a habit of whipping the narrow stretch of water separating the mainland from the island into a tempest of breaking waves.
Those who still clung to the castle’s lichen-covered rock and stone could again call this place home. Compared to the relative comforts of the hotel at Freshwater, no one could deny the last few weeks since arriving back at the castle had been harder than expected. Riley and her team had pulled together to return the military fortress to something approaching its former glory. After all, for the cold and hungry there could be no greater motivation than food and shelter.
Not that Sergeant Flynn’s rag-tag squad of Royal Navy recruits had been idle during their temporary occupation. One had to admit, the young men had made a dizzying array of improvements, many of them defensive. Entwined coils of barbed wire lined the south-facing battlements, machine-gun nests covered the approaches, walls were painted in a lurid green and brown as if the camouflage might conceal the fortress from a casual observer. None of them could quite fathom the military logic. Perhaps it had been a punishment of sorts, a Herculean labour, or something to keep the men busy during the incessant waiting.
Other changes were more subtle. Accommodation upgraded with new beds and mattresses, draughty windows resealed. A field kitchen set up in the canteen with steel pots and pans. Their dry stores remained the greatest concern. The huge collection of tinned food recovered from the local area had been exhausted. Only the padlocked strongrooms underground survived intact, guarding a treasure trove of ration packs and equipment.
Life at the castle was not for the faint of heart. Over a mile walk along the shingle beach to the farmland they maintained in Keyhaven. When the order arrived to withdraw, perhaps the soldiers were relieved. After all, what good were they really doing here? Between the incessant skirmishes with the rebels and the latest wave of the outbreak sweeping the surrounding towns and villages, the Allies relocated their more experienced officers to strategic locations that included refugee processing points, hospitals, and distribution centres for food and fuel, protecting the core from attack.
Since the soldiers’ withdrawal, refugees heading east towards Southampton took full advantage, raiding storehouses, garages and lock ups. Every house, field and fruit tree picked clean by the migrants. In the weeks since their return from Freshwater, Riley and the others set to work, ploughing and replanting. They were under few illusions. It would be some time before they could expect a return.
The animals that somehow survived the winter were brought back within the castle’s protective walls. In the East Wing, cows and sheep blinked against sheeting rain sweeping in from the English Channel, hammering against their recumbent bodies.
Scavenging trips into town became altogether too dangerous. They refocused their efforts on the sea, recovering dozens of lobster and crab pots from Keyhaven and Lymington, and fishing nets strung between buoys across the Needles Passage.
Just after dawn, Riley woke to the sound of seagulls soaring on the wind and waves crashing against the sea defences beneath her window. Yesterday’s storm had passed. She picked out warm clothes fit for outdoor work, cursing as she realised the time. Sam and Tommy would be waiting to cast off for the Nipper's morning circuit, picking up crab pots, hauling in their static gill nets for any bass and mullet.
A morning out on the fishing boat made for hard physical labour, but Riley enjoyed her time away from the castle. It felt so claustrophobic at times. The weight of expectation became suffocating. In a quiet moment, she would admit the mantle of leadership seemed an unwanted burden, one she would happily transfer to others. A trip out would mean a chance to talk in private with Corporal Carter, now in command of the small garrison at The Needles Battery. In return for a regular share of their daily catch, Carter found a way to supply them with the occasional goat, sheep or cow, written off to his superiors as lost to poachers. Though there was another, more private reason. In Zed’s continued absence at St Mary's, Riley had grown to enjoy the corporal’s youthful attention. Their banter somehow made her feel alive again.
Slamming closed the heavy oak door to the Gun Tower, she descended the stone steps, blinking up into the morning sky, half-expecting to see more rain. Dark clouds scuttled across the horizon to the south. In the distance, rough weather threatened. A biting wind whipped and buffeted the battlements, funnelling through the narrow entrance to the Tudor castle. The last few days had been changeable, much like today.
Instead of heading directly to the East Dock, she abruptly reversed course taking the long way around, keeping close to the high walls, shielded from the wind, towards the scaffolding platform Will had erected on the far side of the fortress, facing Fort Albert. Emergency repairs undertaken to sections of the wall in danger of collapse. High tides and winter s
torms had exposed the original foundations. Without heavy earth-moving equipment, Will said they were doing little more than papering over the cracks.
She found Scottie clinging to the top rung of a tall metal ladder, passing a bucket load of cement to Will who straddled the wall. She watched Scottie as he worked, oblivious to her presence. Beyond the shock of red hair and ruddy features, she could well imagine what Greta saw in him. A hot head with Hibernian blood pulsing through his veins. Some said he embodied everything good about life at the castle. A hard worker with a big heart.
“This was meant to be finished yesterday,” interrupted Riley in mock protest, hands on hips.
Scottie put his trowel back in the bucket, looking up at the darkening sky. “If you've come to lend a hand we can finish up before that rain comes in.”
“Tommy said you were looking for me. I’m just heading out with Sam.”
Scottie hesitated, reluctant to speak of whatever it was in front of Will. The Scotsman had developed a nasty habit of whining behind people’s backs. “Since when did you take up fishing?”
“Sam’s teaching me. You know? Doing the leader thing. Showing an interest.”
“Didn’t you hear, it’s her new seafood diet,” added Will, with a wry smile.
”Aye. She sees food and...”
“Just come and find me when you're done messing around,” she said, cutting him off.
Scottie fell into step beside her. “Is it true what they’re saying?”
“Which bit?”
“You know. About the breeding programme.” Riley sighed. This was about the tenth time she had been asked the same question in a week. “Only Greta’s beside herself,” continued Scottie. “She wants us to start a family soon, not get press-ganged into surrogacy.”
Riley paused and placed a comforting hand on his arm. The prospect of their first newborn at the castle stirred a maternal urge she had suppressed for many years. She smiled, attempting to reassure. “If Carter knew anything, he'd tell me.”
“They're giving the younger women all these fertility drugs.”
“They’re just rumours. We don't know for sure.”
Scottie nodded, unsure what to think. “Listen, I know you're close to Carter, but you want to watch yourself."
“Trust me, he’s nothing like Flynn. For a start, he listens. Carter keeps me in the loop. You lot don't understand what it’s really like to be a leader.”
“Give over. You’re a natural.”
“Me? I spend half the night debating every decision.”
“Look, we all knew it would be tough coming back here, starting over. Once we get everything shipshape, we can relax a bit. Right now, people are nervous.”
“With good reason. I still worry about where the next meal is coming from. We can't continue living hand to mouth like this. If something happens to the Nipper, what would we do?” Her voice trailed off. “If only Zed was here.”
Scottie fell silent, perhaps unsure of the right words of comfort. Having Zed's daughter Heather under their care somehow made things harder. The girl shared so many of her father’s mannerisms, peccadilloes. Zed's stubbornness blended with a teenager’s rebelliousness certainly made for a potent combination. His continued absence had somehow brought them closer.
Chapter 2
Rounding the castle's southeastern flank wall, along the shingle beach, Riley found the Nipper waiting to cast off from the East Dock. Unlike its smaller and more sheltered counterpart within the tidal estuary, the mooring had the advantage of being accessible at all points of tide, extended to accommodate larger vessels visiting the castle.
On the Nipper’s foredeck, Tommy fought a losing battle with a ball of fishing line. Seeing Riley, he cast it to one side and directed her to the wheelhouse where yellow oilskins hung from a hook. Despite the daily scrubbing they endured with disinfectant, the overalls stank of fish guts. Sam finished topping off the fuel tanks with a yellow jerry can. After a throaty protest the engines caught and spluttered into a rhythm.
As soon as the fishing boat was clear of the spit, they began to roll, buffeted by the wind and chaotic water racing through the narrow tidal passage. The bow collided with a larger wave sweeping in from Christchurch Bay, sending spray sheeting against the wheelhouse. Riley ducked instinctively, joining Sam inside. She braced herself against the sliding door, scanning the uneven cresting waves stretching to the horizon.
After years as Jack’s understudy, Sam had proven a competent helm. He flicked on the wipers to clear the windscreen. Tommy remained on the foredeck, oblivious to the deck’s violent movements. If the crew were nervous about the sea conditions, they didn’t show it, Sam's facial expressions were a passive barometer, barely registering the roiling mass of water ahead.
“Once we’re through the tidal race, it should calm down a bit,” he reassured Riley. The breeze was a lively force four, gusting five or six. It was the wind direction from the southwest that was making the sea a little bumpier than they would have liked. In calm seas, Sam happily did this trip on his own, but today he would be glad for Riley and Tommy’s company.
On any normal day it was almost impossible to imagine how treacherous this inhospitable place could be in a heavy storm. To the west of the Needles Rocks, all along the southern coast of the island, dozens of wrecks littered the sea bed. The lumbering hulks of unfortunate vessels driven ashore in foul winds. Those that failed to clear St Catherine’s Point or successfully navigate the western entrance to the Solent were smashed against the rocks and sheer chalk cliffs, their sailors drowned in the torrent of water.
On dark winter nights at the castle, Jack's stories of mariners in peril had entertained those gathered in the castle's tiny theatre. Tales of crew clinging to the base of the rocks, hollering for rescue, their screams carried away by storm-force winds. Those that plied their trade at sea accepted the inherent risks. If things went wrong in bad weather, the chances of making it home were slim at the best of times. They could expect no such rescue today from the brave lifeboat men of Lymington, Yarmouth or Freshwater. Right now, there wasn’t another boat as far as the eye could see.
Riley steadied herself as a swirling gust slammed against the Nipper’s small cabin. Pouring them both a mug of tea from a Thermos flask Sam brought with them, she admired the helm's skill as he expertly manoeuvred the fishing boat alongside a bright orange buoy as Tommy hooked the line and hauled in the first of the crab pots. As the two foot long, empty cage broke the surface, Tommy stood back with a shake of the head. He inspected the insides of the blue and black braided enclosure, replaced the lump of fatty meat from a bucket and threw it back overboard.
Over her shoulder, Riley kept an eye on the Needles Rocks, unnerved by the crashing of waves as they collided with the distinctive hard chalk stacks. Sam remained alert this close in, maintaining a safe distance from the shallows.
“This place gives me the creeps,” she admitted. “Too many wrecks. Too many ghosts.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious?”
“I still remember the stories Jack used to tell. About the Mendi?” Sam shook his head, waiting for her to continue. “A troopship on its way to the Western Front during the Great War sank off St Catherine’s Point.”
“On the rocks?”
“No, she collided with another ship in heavy fog. Six hundred and fifty young men drowned. Most of them couldn't swim. Not much older than you and Tommy.”
“Local men?”
“Men from the Colonies. Africa, I think. Jack said the bodies washed ashore for weeks all along the south coast, as far away as Brighton. It made all the papers. Some locals had never seen an African before.”
“There was another body in the estuary today. That's three this week.”
Riley noticed the far-away look in Sam’s eyes as if these latest discoveries had made a lasting impression. Desperate refugees trying to cross the Solent in the dead of night. The patrols no longer took any risk with infection. They sank their i
mprovised crafts on sight. The bloated bodies washed ashore most days. A grisly morning ritual that was fast becoming routine.
“Still, I suppose most of those soldiers would have died a more horrible death in the trenches,” Riley mused. “Perhaps it was better this way.”
“Jack always said, if you got to choose, wouldn't you rather die here?”
“Depends. No one wants to drown.” They both fell silent for a few seconds. “You still miss him, don’t you?”
“Jack? Every day. He was like an uncle to me.”
Whilst there were no visible monuments or epitaphs written here, this was a graveyard just as significant and sobering as any on land, thought Riley. Fishing here felt almost disrespectful, like picking flowers in a graveyard. Yet in the cycle of life, she supposed fish had transformed the wrecks into a vibrant new home, having colonised their rusting steel shapes.
Riley pointed towards the iconic red and white lighthouse topped with a helicopter pad one hundred meters away. “When I was little, I always dreamed of living there.”