‘For many years after Tamalié’s death, the women of the village commemorated the jump each year by imitating it,’ continued Thorpe. ‘But whenever they did so, the wind would whistle eerily through the trees. The village elders took it as a sign that Tamalié’s spirit was made unquiet by the ritual, and ruled that henceforth only men would be permitted to perform the land dive. They still do it to this day, towards the end of the rainy season. It is a sort of coming-of-age ritual combined with a fertility rite, to guarantee a fruitful yam harvest. The vines have to be just the right length: too long, and the land-divers crack their skulls on the ground; too short, and their hair won’t touch the ground to fertilise it.’
‘Do they dive from very high?’ asked Killigrew.
‘I’m informed they dive from over eighty feet, if they’re experienced; although I’ve never seen it for myself.’
‘Eighty feet! It’s a wonder they don’t break their legs when the vine snaps taut.’
‘It does happen from time to time, I’m told,’ said Thorpe. ‘But I’m given to understand that yam vines are springy, so that instead of snapping tight, they stretch. The land diver must be careful, nonetheless. If the vine is too springy, it can snap him back against the tree and break every bone in his body.’
‘Sounds like a capital lark,’ said Killigrew. ‘I wouldn’t mind trying it myself some time…’
‘You would too, you Bedlamite,’ Robertson muttered, as a white-coated steward entered with a pot of tea and four bone-china cups on a tray.
‘So, gentlemen, what brings you to the Isle of Pines?’ Thorpe asked when the steward had poured out the tea and retreated. ‘I had thought the Tisiphone was bound for the Fijis. Or is it a military secret?’ he added, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.
‘No secret, sir,’ said Robertson. ‘We were ordered to touch at Norfolk Island on our way to the Fijis. While we were there, there was a breakout. A whaler picked up Devin Cusack and six dangerous convicts.’
‘Devin Cusack? The Young Ireland chap? Good gracious! Well, I never!’
‘We tried to give chase, but lost the whaler in the dark. We’re searching for her now.’
‘You think she may have come here, to New Caledonia?’ asked Thorpe.
‘It’s one possibility,’ admitted Robertson. ‘Although I think it more likely they’ll try to get at least as far as the New Hebrides before they touch land.’
‘Saints preserve us! You don’t suppose they could be headed for Thorpetown, do you? I’m on my way there now; I’d hate to think that I might arrive and find such a band of cut-throats and desperadoes awaiting me there!’
‘It’s a possibility I haven’t ruled out. But they won’t be there yet. It’s less than three and a half days since the ship we’re after sailed from Norfolk Island. We were hoping to catch them before they got this far, but we must have passed them in the night. Assuming they are headed for the New Hebrides.’
‘What will you do now? Turn back?’
Robertson shook his head. ‘I don’t want to risk passing them again. Our best chance of catching them lies in waiting for them in the New Hebrides.’
‘There is no scarcity of islands in the New Hebrides, Commander. How will you know which one to wait at?’
‘I think we can narrow it down to one of three islands: Aneiteium, Tanna or Éfaté. I’m taking the Tisiphone to Thorpetown and leaving my first lieutenant at Aneiteium with a couple of dozen men, and Mr Killigrew here at Tanna with another couple of dozen.’
‘If you’re stopping at Aneiteium, I should advise you to be wary of Captain Paddon,’ said Thorpe. ‘The man’s an unscrupulous rogue. He dreams of establishing a monopoly in the sandalwood trade in these islands, and resents any kind of competition. As a merchant, I’m used to dealing with sharp practices on the part of my rivals, but Paddon will stop at nothing to get what he wants. The man is entirely without morals or standards. You may have heard that a couple of years ago I was accused of kidnapping natives from the island of Tanna to use as slave labour?’
‘I’m also aware that an investigation was carried out into your exportation of island labour by Captain Maxwell of HMS Dido, and that you were completely exonerated as a result,’ said Robertson.
Thorpe beamed. ‘Kind of you to remember, sir. Well, in no way did I deny that someone was kidnapping islanders from Tanna; what I find most irksome is the fact that, after I established my own innocence in the raids, no one seems to have been concerned with finding the true culprit.’
‘And you think this fellow Paddon might have been behind it?’ asked Robertson.
Thorpe spread his hands. ‘Of course I can prove nothing, but… it is difficult to see who else is trading in these islands who has the resources to carry out such a despicable trade on such a scale; or who else is ruthless enough. Indeed, gentlemen, I should not be surprised to learn that the reason the finger of guilt was pointed at me in the first place was because Paddon deliberately planted evidence incriminating me. There’s nothing that would please him more than to see my being ousted from the island trade; then he’d have a free hand to continue to ravage these islands.’
‘What sort of a man is this Paddon?’
‘A man of mystery, Mr Killigrew. He claims he was born in Portsmouth and that he once served in the Royal Navy – although if it is true, I very much doubt he served on the quarterdeck. The man is no gentleman; his trading station on Aneiteium is nothing but a den of vice and iniquity. Speak to the Reverend Mr Geddie at Anelghowhat; he’ll confirm everything I’ve told you. The only thing I do know about his past is that he used to run opium into China, before he realised there were greater profits to be made in the sandalwood trade. His trading station at Aneiteium is situated on a sandy islet off the south coast of the main island, a place called Inyeug – it means “Mystery Island” in the tongue of the natives. They believe it’s haunted; he bought it from them for an axe, a rug and a few beads.’
‘If he is slaving, then it’s our duty to put a stop to it,’ said Robertson. ‘You say these raids took place on Tanna?’
Thorpe nodded.
‘I’m planning to leave Mr Killigrew here at the trading station at Port Resolution,’ mused Robertson. ‘He has considerable experience of dealing with slavers on the Guinea Coast; I’m sure he’ll be happy to look into the matter while he’s waiting for the Lucy Ann to show up at Port Resolution.’
‘The Lucy Ann!’ exclaimed Thorpe. ‘That’s the name of the ship that rescued these convicts from Norfolk Island?’
‘You’ve heard of her?’ asked Killigrew.
‘But of course! Wasn’t Lucy Ann the name of the ship captained by the uncle of that youth who assaulted you in Hobart Town when last we met? I wish you joy of your hunt, gentlemen. If Captain Quested is the man who spirited Devin Cusack and these six other convicts away from Norfolk Island, it sounds to me as if you’ve got your work cut out for you.’
* * *
Mrs Cafferty was sitting on the bunk in Quested’s stateroom with her knees drawn up to her chest when she heard the door to the great cabin open and saw a light beneath the stateroom door. It was three o’clock in the morning – she had just heard the ship’s bell clang six times – and all was dark outside the porthole in the bulkhead above her, but she was wide awake.
She heard footsteps crossing the deck of the great cabin and a jingle of keys turning in the lock. It was not Quested, she knew: he never disturbed her except to let her out for meals during the day – and besides, by now she had learned to recognise his footsteps, a sound that never failed to send a shudder down her spine. Part of her hoped it was Cusack, but when the door opened she was disappointed to recognise Vickers. He stood in the doorway, looking at her, the little finger of his right hand thrust deep into one cheek.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Came to see if you were all right, didn’t I?’
‘It’s three o’clock in the morning,’ she protested.
‘You weren’
t sleeping.’ She was fully dressed, albeit in a change of clothes from the evening gown she had been wearing when she had first been kidnapped five nights ago. Instead she wore a pair of trousers from the pusser’s slops with the hems rolled up, and a striped woollen guernsey that was three sizes too large for her. She had not forgotten what crime Vickers had been transported for, and hoped that the baggy, masculine clothes would deprive her of any feminine allure she might possess.
‘That’s beside the point,’ she told him.
‘I brought you a drink,’ he told her. ‘You look like you could do with one.’ He stepped aside and gestured to where he had set a bottle of wine and two mugs on the cabin table. Looking through the stateroom door, she saw the curtains over the stern window were open, and through them she could see a distant light in the darkness outside. She wondered if it was another ship. If there was some way she could signal to it, perhaps…
Vickers followed her glance, and seemed to read her mind, or at least come close. ‘That’s the Isle of Pines,’ he explained to her. ‘Four miles off the larboard beam, so if you were thinking of jumping overboard and swimming ashore, I’d think again if I were you.’
Four miles, she thought to herself. She knew she was a strong swimmer, but she did not know if she was capable of swimming four miles. She climbed off the bunk and walked into the great cabin.
Vickers uncorked the wine and poured them each a mug. He raised his own to his lips. ‘Mmm! Not bad. Not bad at all. What’s the matter, ma’am? Not drinking?’
‘I’m not thirsty, Mr Fingers.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He sat down on the edge of the table, facing her as she sat on the window seat. ‘Please, call me Jemmy. You got a Christian name, ma’am? Seems kind of foolish, us being alone together and me having to call you “ma’am” or “Mrs Cafferty” all the time.’
‘I don’t think we are sufficiently well acquainted for you to address me by my Christian name, Mr Fingers.’
‘Yur, well, I were thinking we could get better acquainted.’
‘Does Captain Quested know you’re in here?’
‘He’s tucked up in his cabin, sleeping.’ He leered. ‘So you don’t have to worry about anyone disturbing us.’ He locked the door behind him, and then sat down beside her. ‘I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me…’
She stood up and moved away. ‘With revulsion?’
He leaped angrily to his feet. ‘What’s the matter with you? Think you’re too good for me, is that it?’
‘Well, since you mention it…’
‘Don’t act all virtuous on me! You think I don’t know what you and Cusack get up to when you’re alone together in here?’
‘Apparently you don’t, since all we do is play draughts.’ She moved so that the table was between her and Vickers. He started to dodge one way round the table; she dodged the other way, but his move was a feint and he doubled back like lightning, catching her by the wrist. ‘Let go of me!’
He forced her back against the bulkhead. ‘All right, drop the act. You know you want it really.’
‘Wanting “it” is one thing, Mr Fingers. Wanting “it” from you is another matter entirely. If you don’t let me go this instant, I shall be forced to summon assistance.’
He brought up his right hand: he was holding a clasp knife, and he laid the flat of the blade against her throat. ‘You scream, missy, and it’ll be the last sound you ever make.’ He pushed her towards the table and made her bend over it. ‘Come on, stop making such a fuss,’ he said, reaching down to the waistband of her borrowed trousers. ‘Who knows? You might even enjoy it.’
She snatched the bottle off the table and spun around, swinging it against the side of his head. The bottle remained intact; Vickers staggered under the blow, momentarily dazed, but quickly recovered himself.
‘You little bitch! I only wanted to have a little fun, but you had to play all hoity-toity. Well, for that I’m going to have to hurt you…’
* * *
Solomon Lissak was being pursued. He had no idea what chased him, only that he had to get away from it. He tried to run, but his limbs were like lead, glued to the ground, and it took all his strength just to put one leg in front of the other.
He felt a hand grip him by the shoulder from behind, and his stomach lurched when he realised it was all over. He turned to look into his assailant’s eyes, and looked into the eyes of a younger version of himself.
He heard a woman scream. The scream had no place in his nightmare and, with the realisation that a nightmare was all it was, he woke up. He lay in a hammock in the forecastle of the Lucy Ann.
‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Wyatt’s voice demanded in the darkness.
Another sound came from aft, a muffled splash. Footsteps thundered on the deck above.
‘That was a woman’s scream,’ said Wyatt. He struck a match and applied the flaring flame to a spermaceti candle. The flickering light from beneath his chin gave his features a demonic look. ‘And the only woman on board is Mrs Cafferty,’ he added.
‘We’d better go and take a look,’ said Jarrett.
Grumbling, Lissak climbed out of his hammock and pulled on his trousers. ‘You coves go first.’ Wyatt and Jarrett glared at him deprecatingly. ‘I’m an old man!’ he protested.
Jarrett noticed that the hammock next to his own was empty. ‘Where’s Fingers?’
‘I think I can guess,’ Wyatt said grimly.
The three of them made their way aft in time to meet Quested and Cusack emerging from their cabin. Utumate descended the companion ladder from the deck, with two more spouters crowding behind him.
‘What’s going on, Utumate?’ demanded Quested. ‘I thought I heard a scream, then a splash.’
The Polynesian specksnyder nodded. ‘It come from your cabin, Cap’n. Sound like someone fall overboard.’
Quested and Cusack exchanged glances, and then they all hurried down the corridor to the door at the far end. Cusack grabbed the handle, but the door was locked. He threw his shoulder against it ineffectually.
‘Out of the way.’ Wyatt motioned the Irishman aside, and then slammed the sole of his foot against the door, just below the handle. It sprang open, but only a couple of inches. ‘There’s something blocking it,’ said Wyatt, and thrust his head through the gap. ‘Looks like Fingers.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Cusack.
‘Can’t tell.’ Wyatt snapped his fingers at Utumate, and the two of them put their shoulders to the door.
‘Hold on, Mrs Cafferty!’ called Cusack. ‘We’ll be there in a moment!’
There was no reply. That did not surprise Lissak: if Vickers was dead or unconscious, then only one other person could have made the splash.
Wyatt and Utumate managed to force the door open. They all stumbled inside. Vickers lay behind the door, a bruise weeping blood on his temple, his head surrounded by the shards of what might once had been a chamber pot. Wyatt crouched over him, feeling for a pulse in his wrist. ‘He’ll live,’ muttered Wyatt.
‘Mrs Cafferty?’ called Cusack. ‘It’s all right, it’s safe now. You can come out… ma’am?’ He crossed to the open door of the stateroom and peered inside. ‘She’s not in here.’
‘Mr Cusack?’ said Lissak.
The Irishman turned back to face him. Lissak nodded to the open window.
‘Jesus Christ!’ hissed Wyatt. ‘The crazy bitch is trying to swim for it!’
Quested crossed to the window and peered out before turning back to Utumate. ‘Where are we? Off the Isle of Pines?’
The specksnyder nodded. ‘She never make it, Cap’n. It be four mile off Even if shark not get she – even if she make it past reef – savage be waiting when she get ashore.’
‘Put the ship about,’ ordered Cusack. ‘We have to pull her out of the water before she drowns!’
The harpooners called all hands on deck. They tacked the ship to windward, coming about and sailing back to the point where Utumate ha
d heard the splash, as best he could remember. Whatever light Mrs Cafferty had seen on the Isle of Pines was no longer visible, and while they could just make out the mass of land to starboard, there were no landmarks visible by which they could orientate themselves. The Lucy Ann’s three remaining boats were lowered from the davits and their crews started to quarter the dark waters between ship and land, using bull’s-eyes and flambeaux to illuminate the scene.
‘There’s no sign of her!’ Macy called across impatiently to where Cusack, Lissak and Utumate stood at the bulwark of the Lucy Ann.
‘She drown, Mr Cusack,’ said Utumate. ‘That, or shark get her.’
The Irishman ignored the specksnyder. ‘Widen your search pattern! Go further in towards the island!’
‘We’re almost on the reef as it is,’ Quested said mildly. ‘No one can swim four miles, least of all some chit of a girl.’
‘Byron swam the Hellespont,’ replied Cusack. ‘That’s about four miles. And he had a gammy leg.’
‘Who the hell’s Byron?’ asked Lissak.
‘We’re wasting time,’ Quested said dismissively. ‘Search for the bitch, by all means. I’m going back to my bunk.’ He turned away from the bulwark. Lissak saw Lorgan follow the captain below, and turned to Cusack.
The Irishman had other things on his mind. ‘I got her into this mess,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t leave her to die.’
In the past Lissak had often been accused of talking too much, but this time he knew there was nothing he could say which would help, so he clapped Cusack sympathetically on the shoulder and then followed Quested and Forgan to the after hatch.
The old lag stole down the companion ladder on the same catlike feet which had served him so well as a thief. He could hear muffled voices coming from one of the cabins: Quested and Forgan. He could not make out what they were saying, so he crept closer.
‘…shouldn’t underestimate her, Cap’n. She’s ain’t loco. No matter how desperate she was, she wouldn’t have jumped overboard unless she judged she had a good chance of reaching the island.’
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 22