Hell and High Water

by Tanya Landman

  As was always the way, the crowd cheered to rouse Punch from his slumbers while Caleb, knowing Letty was absolutely in control, slipped unnoticed through the bushes and made his way swiftly towards the house.

  So long as the show continued he need not fear discovery. The servants had been given permission to watch, so for its duration the manor was empty.

  He remembered enough of the layout to go at once to the study but on the way passed rooms of overwhelming opulence. Look at all this, they screamed. Imagine how much this cost! Look at this wealth, this power. Do you really think you can do anything to harm the man who has so much? The rooms seemed intended to intimidate, to make Caleb feel that he was a speck of dirt, a blot on the page, a smear on the glass – something that needed wiping away. But he would not be cowed: he was not the villain here, and he had waited far too long for a chance to prove who was.

  In the study was a desk as Letty’s father had described. Its surface was clear but in its drawers there was so much paper to be sifted through! So many records, so many ledgers, so many letters relating to Sir Robert’s business affairs!

  From across the lawn came the children’s delighted shrieks and the loud laughter of their mothers. Punch had been woken and was now bidding “How d’ye do?” to the jester. Every time Punch bowed, the jester struck him upon the head. Letty had been skilled in the barn, but now – with a crowd – her performance had clearly moved up several notches.

  But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of Letty – he had to move swiftly. Caleb pulled open one drawer, then another. Nothing of interest. The third, to his relief, was full of papers that related to the Linnet. There was a copy of the bill of lading and of the affidavit sworn before Narcissus Puddleby. There was also a copy of the contract for the transportation of the convicts. He skimmed the document. It seemed Sir Robert had been paid by His Majesty’s Government no less – paid very handsomely! – to carry the twelve men across the ocean.

  And there was more – so much more! A pocketbook detailing notes of payments to members of the crew – surely these sums were way over and above what any sailor could have expected to earn for a voyage? Each man had signed, or made his mark, on the page beside his name, acknowledging receipt. It had the look of a pact with the Devil, Caleb thought – it should have been written in blood. Here was the evidence that the crew’s silence had been bought with a good deal of money. But what were they keeping quiet about?

  Caleb leafed through more papers. There were many letters, correspondence back and forth between Sir Robert and a group of gentlemen who gave their communal address as Porlock’s Coffee House in the city of Torcester. Porlock’s – Pa’s favourite hostelry. It seemed a strange coincidence. Surely it must mean something? But what? He couldn’t make head or tail of any of this. The nature of the business contained in the letters was mystifying. He must calm himself. Sit down. Read each one slowly, thoroughly, from beginning to end.

  As he worked his way through he began to see that Sir Robert had paid to each of the Porlock’s gentlemen a small amount of money. They, in return, had agreed to underwrite the risk of the Linnet’s voyage, covering the value of both the vessel and cargo in the event of her accidental loss. What did it mean – to underwrite a risk? He’d never heard the phrase before. It was nonsense. Jibberish.

  His palms were damp and clammy now. He was going nothing like fast enough. And he was getting nowhere! Everything he looked at added to his confusion.

  He then came across a letter that mentioned a sum of money paid to Sir Robert by these same Porlock’s gentlemen upon receipt of the magistrate’s signed affidavit. It was a vast amount. Pa could have worked his entire life and not made half that sum. Why had a group of men who drank coffee together given Sir Robert a fortune? The letter stated that it was to cover the cost of the Linnet, but she had been a leaky tub, Letty said – thirty years old, or more. She couldn’t be worth that much, could she?

  He spread the documents on the desk, willing himself to make sense of them. In his own grandfather’s day the loss of a ship had resulted in ruination. Had times changed so much? Something new was afoot here, something he couldn’t grasp. These papers seemed to show that Sir Robert had been paid for his sunken vessel. Had Caleb understood that right? It seemed unlikely. Impossible. And yet there was no other explanation.

  Rifling frantically through the drawer for anything that might throw more light on the matter Caleb saw that pushed into the back was a silken handkerchief wound into a bundle. It looked as though it had been dropped there absent-mindedly and forgotten about. But to find such a thing in this particular desk amongst these carefully ordered papers could surely be no accident? The handkerchief was embroidered with Sir Robert’s initials and contained something hard and heavy. Cupping the bundle in his palm, he started to unfold the silk. One corner, the second, then the third. When he pulled back the fourth to reveal the contents, Caleb gagged.

  A finger. Mummified now, the skin dried hard as leather but still clinging to the golden ring. Two interlocking Cs gleaming as brightly as ever they had.

  He swallowed, desperate to quell his nausea. For a moment his hands shook. But only for a moment. This new discovery had driven a piece of flint into his heart. He would have vengeance.

  The distant screams of delighted children drifted through the open window. Out on the lawns Punch was already fighting the Devil. The routine should have been swift, rapid, the stunning finale to the show, but Caleb was aware that Letty was drawing it out, unable to finish until he was there to take the bow.

  He must go. Wrapping Pa’s finger in the handkerchief and placing it in his pocket, cramming the papers back in the drawer, he left the house. Hurrying through the bushes, appearing at the back, he whispered, “I’m here,” before lighting the hellfire flame’s candle and holding it in place as he had once done for Pa.

  Letty looked exhausted. But right on cue she blew and a cloud of powdered resin ignited in the air. Clapping his hands, taking his final bow, the show was done. On the playboard, Punch waved goodbye to the crowd and then Letty collapsed into a heap on the floor of the theatre while Caleb stepped out front and took the applause that rightfully belonged to her.

  Lady Fairbrother approached him. Looking over his head, she deigned to ask, “Was it very hot in there?”

  Caleb was breathless and sweating from the speed of his return, but her Ladyship took the cause to be his recent “performance”. “Oh … yes, my Lady, the theatre lacks air.”

  “It was an impressive show. May I see inside?”

  “Ah no!” he said hastily. Then, with an attempt at a smile, added, “A showman must keep his secrets.”

  “Very well,” she replied stiffly. Caleb had offended her, but he cared nothing for that. Sir Robert himself now walked slowly forward to congratulate Caleb and then to inform him that the sequence with the Devil was a trifle too lengthy and could do with a judicious trimming. “Cut out the gristle and the whole dish will be more appetizing.” His eyes travelled from Caleb’s face down to his toes and then back up again. “I suppose you will be leaving your aunt’s shortly. No doubt you intend to travel far and wide like a gypsy. You will be well suited to a vagrant’s life.”

  The insult required no answer so Caleb gave none. Not out loud. But I will have you, Sir bleeding-high-and-mighty Robert, he thought. I will see justice done.

  Caleb bowed while the lady took her husband’s arm and together the couple walked away, proceeding slowly across the lawns, William Benson at his master’s right hand, the parson and his wife trailing meekly behind.

  After many more warm shakes of the hand, many congratulations and expressions of gratitude from the widows and the children the crowd dispersed. Food was the next on their list of that afternoon’s delights and all were eager to fill their bellies. Who knew when they would eat so well again?

  Caleb was finally alone with Letty. She was flushed from her success but hadn’t forgotten the purpose of the visit. T
here was no time for them to talk. Caleb simply pressed the silk package into her hands. “Keep this safe,” he said. “But do not look inside.”

  “What is it?”

  “Pa’s ring, still on his finger. I found it in Sir Robert’s desk.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you took it? For God’s sake, Caleb! What’ll happen if he sees it gone?”

  “We must move quickly, that much is certain. Go on home. After the Lady Jane has sailed, then we can decide what’s to be done.”

  Letty looked grim, but she slipped the bundle into her pocket, buttoning it up safe. And then she left the way she had come, furtively, through the woods, unseen.

  Caleb packed the theatre and puppets but his mind was so taken up with other things he made a poor job of it. It was only when the sack was tied that he realized he’d left Pa’s hellfire pipe and tinderbox on the grass along with the bag of powdered resin. There was no time to repack. Wanting to get away quickly, he stowed them in his pockets and then hoisted the theatre onto his shoulder. He’d been unable to do that last year, he recalled suddenly: he must have grown over the winter. Carrying the sack of puppets in the opposite hand, he walked away from Norton Manor.

  He’d found out many things about Sir Robert’s business but so little of it made sense – and he still didn’t know what had happened to Pa. The frustration of that gnawed at him. Pa couldn’t have been chained on the Linnet when she sank and now he had the proof of that, but what the Devil had befallen him? Pa’s body still lay in the churchyard under a false name. He’d hardly made any progress! He had no idea what to do next and there was no one he could go to with the information, no one in authority he could trust.

  He stored the theatre and puppets in the barn. Until he’d spoken to Letty, until they’d agreed a course of action, he must behave normally. He’d return home and then go off to see the Lady Jane sail. Letty would no doubt row to Tawpuddle with her father. He would walk – take Dorcas along, maybe, if Anne would allow it.

  Pausing for a moment on the crest of the hill, he looked out to sea. It had been a fine day. The cliffs were sheened pink and yellow with wild flowers; water and sky were a brilliant blue and the island, which had looked so bleak and godforsaken all winter, was topped by a line of green vegetation. But now the heat had become oppressive and great clouds had begun to billow, hanging like anvils above it. A storm was approaching and he wondered if the departure of the Lady Jane would be delayed. The captain surely wouldn’t wish to sail head-on into a tempest? Caleb felt a glimmer of optimism. He might yet have a chance of talking to Edward Avery face to face and demanding the truth. The discovery of Pa’s ring gave him fresh resolve.

  Caleb wasn’t halfway home when he heard a sound. Someone was running, hard and fast, coming up swiftly behind him. He turned. But before he could see who it was he was struck on the head. Struck so hard that all sense was knocked clean out of him.

  18.

  If this is death, was Caleb’s first conscious thought, it is sadly disappointing.

  He was curled up, folded in on himself like a newborn baby. There was blackness – not the cool, clear blackness of night, but a muffled, smothering dark. And there was pain. So much of it! Pain everywhere, in every part of him. He had died, but this was not heaven: that could not hurt so savagely. He was damned to hell. Yet there was no flaming pit, no smell of sulphur, no horde of demons. Nothing, but the enveloping dark and the pain.

  And then movement. A violent jolt that made his head explode with agony. He screamed, or tried to. His mouth was stoppered with a cloth, balled and pushed so hard between his teeth that it was close to choking him. He longed to tear it out, but could not move, so tightly was he confined on all sides.

  Panic – that most futile of emotions! – overwhelmed him. If he’d been free to run it might have lent an extra spur to his flight. Trapped, it did nothing but reduce him to a helpless terrified wreckage. Tears streamed down his face, his nose ran: he was going to suffocate. He had to get out! He struggled. Wrestled. Strained. But he couldn’t move even a fraction of an inch.

  Pa’s voice in his head: Be calm. Slow down. Take a breath.

  But his arms were tight across his chest. He couldn’t fill his lungs.

  Shallow breaths then. But slow. Count. In. Hold. One, two, three. Out. Release it slowly. Now the next.

  Do as Pa would do.

  Come on, Caleb! God gave you a mind; he meant you to use it. So think. Use your reason!

  Caleb forced himself into a state of relative calm. Where was he? Captive. In something small. A trunk perhaps. Or a chest. No. The sides were not flat. They curved against his back. Damnation, his back! The skin must have been scraped off as he’d been forced inside this thing. It smarted, sticky with sweat and blood. Rough, heavy timber against his raw, screaming flesh. Take a breath. Stinks like a tavern. But not ale. Something stronger. Whisky? Rum, maybe? Was he confined in a barrel?

  Sound was muffled, but that regular, steady beat… It was the plod of horse’s hooves on the earth road. The creak of a harness, the turning of wheels. He was on a cart then, being carried along. By whom? To where? What did his captor intend to do with him?

  He could see nothing. Smell nothing but rum and sweat and fear. His ears strained for clues.

  The thud of hooves changed. They were no longer on a dirt road: cobbles now. There were people in the streets – snatches of conversation, shouts of greeting. And water? Was that the sound of water?

  The cart stopped. Cries of seabirds. Men calling. Yelling orders. The chatter of women. Children. Crowds of people. The creak of rigging. The flap of canvas in the wind.

  Another sudden jolt as the barrel was lifted, thumped to the ground, then pushed onto its side. Rolled over cobbles. Pain and dizziness rendered him almost unconscious. The barrel was righted, but this time it was upside down. Now his feet were uppermost. Caleb was on his head, neck nearly breaking under his own weight. Blood pounded in his skull, and poured from the wound made where he had been struck.

  He had known many things in the past few months: hunger, fear, loneliness, grief. But he had never experienced such intense physical anguish as he did then.

  And yet through that screaming haze of pain came a sliver of hope. As the barrel had rolled across the quayside a cork stopper had become slightly dislodged and a tiny crescent of light cut through the blackness inside. He struggled, each move a blinding, piercing new agony – and managed to get a single finger to it. Pushing the cork out, the crescent turned into a perfect circle of daylight.

  He could see nothing through it, but could hear a little more clearly the sounds of a ship being made ready to sail. And then he caught Letty’s voice. Fretful. Anxious. “But where is he? He said he’d come.”

  Hearing her, Caleb redoubled his efforts to escape. But the barrel was suddenly hefted high and he no longer knew which way was up, which was down. With the last of his strength he pushed his finger through the hole, hoping that Letty or someone, anyone – customs officer, sailor, child – would see it, would demand to know why a barrel containing a man was being carried on board.

  But there were no shouts. No questions. No cries of surprise or alarm. Simply another crushing thud as barrel hit deck. The slither of ropes lashing it down. For a moment everything was still. And then the slap of waves on the hull, orders yelled, feet running to and fro, the crack of canvas as sails were hoisted. The shouts of mariners as the ship cast off and got underway, shrill cries of “Farewell” from the women and children on the quay.

  One of the voices deeper than the others. So achingly familiar, it jerked his heart from his chest.

  Letty!

  Bidding goodbye to her father.

  And then nothing but the creaking of the ship’s timbers as the Lady Jane carried Caleb from the land.

  19.

  Caleb was no sailor. The river was calm as they left Tawpuddle but even the boat’s slightest motion made him sick to the stomach. He’d emptied his belly over the ferryman’s
feet all those months ago. If he did the same now the cloth balled in his mouth would prevent its escape: he’d die a choking death in the barrel.

  He squirmed and wriggled, performing the most extraordinary contortions, scraping his already injured head, but couldn’t extract it. Yet maybe the barrel being rolled over cobbles, getting lifted, dropped, lifted and dropped again had somehow dislodged it. Or maybe the sheer force of his reaction to the ship’s movement was sufficient. Either way, on the journey down to the river’s mouth he heaved out the cloth along with the entire contents of his stomach.

  And then the ship passed over the bar. On the Tawpuddle side of it the river had been almost tranquil, but on the other the sea stirred like a vast beast rousing from its slumber. The swell carried the Lady Jane up to the peak of a wave then threw her over into the valley of the next.

  There is no misery quite like the sickness that comes from being on board ship. Though he tried, no effort of will could conquer it. As Caleb endured its ghastly, life-sapping pangs he prayed for his life to end swiftly. Had his captors tossed the barrel overboard he’d have welcomed the drowning waves’ embrace. He retched and heaved, heaved and retched and even though belly and guts were utterly evacuated the retching and heaving did not cease. He’d never felt such exhaustion. And each spasm set his wounded head pounding until he felt it had surely split in two.

  A pitiful heap of misery, he was scarcely able to hear the conversation of the men on deck, much less to make sense of it. What did any of it matter? The sickness had robbed him of curiosity, of fear, of everything.

  It went on for an hour, maybe two or more: to Caleb it seemed an eternity. The swell was already high and growing higher. The ship’s timbers groaned and protested at every slapping wave.

  But at last there came a slight lessening of the sea’s violence. Caleb heard chains rattling and guessed that the crew had dropped the anchor. Had he slept? He didn’t think so. He listened. There was nothing but the wind and the sea. They were not in port then. And yet they had stopped.