“You didn’t know they were armed. They might have been there to rescue you. How did you know they weren’t?”
The legal officer gestured Harry to silence. “Inspector, you have been provided with copies of all the information the Fleet rescue squad found and recovered. I suggest you accept it. The answer to your question is there.” He paused. “Mr Heron and Mr O’Connor knew that the men were not there to rescue them, and that they were armed.” He pushed a data chip across the table. “Any further information you may require will have to be authorised by the Advocate Admiral’s department. The evidence concerning the abduction and the statements of the recovery team are there. Do you have any further questions for Midshipman Heron?”
The Inspector scowled. “A whole raft of them, but I see I am wasting my time getting answers. A charge has been laid in the local district court of serious assault on two men currently in hospital. As I can’t get access to them due to their being held in a high security facility, I only know what is on the charge sheet concerning the assault.”
The door opened, and the man Harry recognised as the leader of the rescue team entered. “Inspector, I think this little farce has gone far enough,” said the man. “My boss wants a word, and I imagine the situation is already being explained to your superiors as we speak.” He nodded to Harry and the legal officer, both on their feet. “Maurice, you’d better come with us. Mr Heron, return to your class.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Harry had no idea what the man’s rank was, but he was clearly used to giving orders. Saluting, Harry made for the door then paused. “I hope, Inspector, I have provided at least some answers for you.”
Despite the awkwardness of the situation, the Inspector smiled. “I think so, Mr Heron. I think so.”
HARRY COILED THE SHEETS AND TIDIED THE HALYARDS on the sloop. The training and sailing practice in preparation for the Regatta took his mind off the abduction and the legal row over their possible evidence. Even then there was no lowering of his guard on anything. Keiron, Elize, Howard and the others in the sloop crew found it frustrating, but did their best to understand his suspicion. It was especially hard for Elize, who’d formed an attraction for Harry.
The one benefit, as far as Harry was concerned, was that Eon Barclay was taking care to avoid him. This had not escaped the attention of their Divisional Officer, Lt Häakinen, who watched from the cockpit as the crew prepared to sail.
Keiron sought to set Harry at ease. “That business with Lieautenant Crossley still bothering you?”
“Yes.” Harry’s guard came up. “Yes, it is,” he repeated defensively, and regretted it.
Keiron nodded. “I can see it’s caused a problem for you, chum. We’re all on your side if it helps to know that.”
“Thank you, but yes—our abduction seems to have caused more than one problem.”
“How’s that?” Keiron asked.
“We are advised the enquiry is further postponed. There is some legal challenge arising from the means of our escape and the capture of our abductors.” His expression hardened. “Apparently we stand accused of having used undue force.”
“Bastards. What did they expect, for you to whimper, ‘Please let us go and we won’t hurt you’?”
Harry laughed. “Perhaps.”
Elize watched as Ferghal swung aboard, coxswain by unanimous consent for the whaler racing team. “He’s got his crew team in shape now,” she said, hoping to distract Harry from mulling over Keiron’s remarks. “Other teams have more muscle, but Ferghal’s got a knack for making the boat work for the rowers.”
Harry was grateful for her intervention. “Aye. He learned these and other tricks from men who knew the art of pulling a laden barge or cutter. Yon boat is a toy compared to what Ferghal’s used to, lightly built and flimsy, with one purpose only — to race.”
“True.” She smiled at the mental image this evoked, a fast racing boat seeming like a toy to this young man who had learned to sail the “wooden walls,” as the sailing ships were called in the nineteenth century.
Elize used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Looks like we’re all aboard now.” She stood and dusted the seat of her trousers. “Are we going to sail this ship, Captain?” She winked and nudged him. “We’ve only got her for the next couple of hours.”
“We’ll sail then.” Harry took command. “Everyone ready? Senzile, stand by to cast off forward. Howard, I’ll want the foresail unfurled and sheeted home to windward. Elize, sheet home the mainsail on my order.” Turning to Ferghal at the wheel, he asked, “Ready?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Ferghal grinned, eager to get started.
From the cockpit, Lieutenant Häakinen waited for the order to start the small manoeuvring engine to leave the jetty. It never came, and he watched with interest as Harry checked the distance between the sloop and the other moored vessels, tested the wind strength and direction, and very obviously took command.
“Cast off forward. Let go aft but hold the after spring. Hold the jib to windward, Howard.” Harry watched the opening gap between the hull and the jetty, then at the moorings to leeward. “Let go the spring, sheet home the jib and the main.” The yacht gathered way swiftly and Ferghal caught her, steadied the helm and steered them clear of the moored vessels. “Very well. Let’s see what we can do with her now.” Harry gauged the wind and glanced at the log. “Stand by to extend the foils. Ferghal, steer east by south-south-east.”
As he watched, Lieutenant Häakinen let his breath out slowly. “Now that was something I’ve not seen done,” he told the security officer. “I’ve read about it, but wouldn’t have attempted it myself.”
The officer nodded. “You know the sail handling comp is disengaged.”
“What? Then how are they doing this?” The Lieutenant checked as the whine of a pump told him the hydroplaning foils were being extended. “Well I’ll be damned. Now this will be interesting,”
The yacht rose smoothly onto her foils and the speed increased.
“How does she steer?” Harry called to Ferghal. “Will she carry more sail? I’ve a fancy to see how she behaves if we press her.”
Ferghal smiled. “She steers well, Captain. Let us press her and see.”
The freshening wind gave Harry the opportunity to explore the performance of this unusual vessel to the fullest extent. At times his crew experienced exhilaration, and at others wondered if they’d be swimming home. Twice the Lieutenant considered intervening, but was forestalled by Harry taking action, which, while sometimes was not what the Lieutenant considered conventional, corrected the situation.
Securing the mooring lines once more, Keiron cast a respectful glance at Harry. “Damn it, Harry, a couple of times there I thought we’d break something, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a sail like that. Fantastic! If we can get her to perform like that in the Regatta—oh yeah, I can taste the victory now!” He whooped.
“You certainly pushed the boat to the limit, Mr Heron,” said Lieutenant Häakinen, joining them. He had watched Harry on several earlier practice runs with these foil-riding sloops, but this, his first sail with him, had been different to what he’d expected. “You had us in the red range on the dynamometers for the foils several times.”
“If we are to race, sir, then I must know her limits.” Harry’s face suggested he’d been testing more than just the boat. “I believe I have now found them. In conditions like those we have had today, these foils need constant adjusting.” He grinned suddenly at a memory. “I do not believe they would have survived the storm I experienced off the New South Wales coast in Spartan’s Number Two cutter in ’03. In sheltered waters such as these they do very well, but in the open ocean I rather think they will be a hazard.”
“What storm was that? I don’t recall any major storm reports off that coast in ’03.” The Lieutenant, a keen yachtsman himself, frowned. “Spartan? Oh. You mean 1803.”
Before Harry could reply, Elize asked, “What sort
of boat was that? Something like the one you guys built on Pangaea?”
“Lord no. The Number Tw0 cutter was just over twenty-two feet — around six and a half metres — and open. She could ship six oars and carried a mast rigged with a sliding gunter for the main and two small foresails.” Harry shrugged. “We’d been sent with the barge and the Number One cutter north from Port Jackson to what is now called the Hawkesbury River estuary to prepare a preliminary survey and chart. On our return we were caught at sea by what they call a southerly buster.” He smiled and glanced to where Ferghal was busy folding and stowing the sails. “I was fortunate to have a very good Master’s Mate with me and some excellent seamen. It was quite alarming for some hours, but we survived intact and were able to assist the Number One cutter, which had lost her mast and part of her gunwales.”
Sensing that he would not elaborate any further, the others made a mental note to drag the rest of the story from Ferghal if they could, and the Lieutenant to search the archives to see if there was any official record of the event. Now, with the boat secure, they disembarked and made their way back to the accommodation block to change and prepare for the evening sessions.
Walking beside Harry, Keiron said, “You guys always surprise the rest of us, Harry, and sometimes you scare us. Life is certainly not dull with you and Ferghal in command.”
“I hope I am not too much the tyrant.”
Laughing, Keiron punched his shoulder. “We’d soon mutiny if you were!”
THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S VISIT TROUBLED HARRY. Though he heard no more about the charge, the mere fact it had been made annoyed him. “What kind of society charges a man defending himself against an attacker, then charges him with injuring the attacker?” he demanded of Elize.
She drew away from him slightly. “Can’t you let it go? Let the Security and Intel spooks handle it.” She hesitated, wanting to say more, but not wanting to upset Harry. She never knew what might set him off. “You can’t go round treating us all as enemies. We aren’t. They’ve cleaned out the cell that was here among the staff, and none of us Yotties are playing for the other side.”
“I am sorry, Elize. I no longer know who to trust, and this new attack upon us—”
“I can understand that, Harry, or at least some of it. As for the legal nonsense — well, the police are just doing their job. Someone laid a charge, and they have to investigate it, even if it is stupid.”
Harry considered her words. “I shall do my best. I’m sorry.” Smiling suddenly, he asked, “Shall we walk a while? Or do you wish to watch some fencing practice?”
Laughing, she linked arms with him. “The fencing might be the best way to get some of the aggression out of you.” Glancing round, she frowned. “Have you and The Barclay made peace? I don’t see him or his cronies baiting you these days.”
Shaking his head, Harry grinned. “No such luck. Come on, then, let us see if there is a piste free and someone who wishes to try his blade with me.”
Elize laughed. “I would take you on myself, but I have to report for a tutorial in ten minutes. I’ll join you later.”
“HEY FOSSIL!” LASCHELLES SWAGGERED OVER TO HARRY. “You think you’re a swordsman? Want to try your luck with a class champion?”
“Are you challenging me?” asked Harry quietly. He didn’t actively dislike Laschelles, but regarded him as a braggart and would-be bully. “If so, I am willing to accept it. Do you choose foil or sabre?”
“Sabre will do for me.” Laschelles smirked. He believed himself more than capable of beating Harry, but planned a little fun to make a point of it. “I’ve got a piste reserved. Follow me if you’ve the guts for it.”
Harry bristled, his temper rising at this calculated insult. “Lead the way,” he said with a calmness he didn’t feel. “We shall see how your sabre fares against mine.” He noticed Laschelles’ friends watching and smirking, and knew there must be some skulduggery planned. Deciding not to let this put him off, he prepared, now on his guard. After connecting to the electronic scoring system, he selected a sabre that suited his grip and balance, and took his position.
For a few minutes he let Laschelles lead the attack while he gauged his opponent’s skill and tactics. Then, when he had some measure of how the other fought, he changed his game from one of pure defence to an attack. At first he kept up the pattern of skilfully blocking Laschelles’ sallies, and then he exploited opportunities to introduce his own feints, carefully exploring every opening. As he had been taught so many years before, he kept his eyes locked to his opponent’s, even though partially hidden by the mask, something that seemed to cause Laschelles some discomfort as their blades flashed, clashed, locked and slid as each man looked for that all important opportunity to pass the other’s guard and score a hit on the padded jacket, arm or helmet.
Where Harry had initially given ground, now he pressed his adversary step by careful step back along the marked piste.
Suddenly, Laschelles changed his own play, and moving through a beating attack, he forced Harry back, pressing in hard until their blades locked. Harry saw the look of triumph in his eyes and sensed what was about to happen. He danced aside, his blade disengaging and sweeping up and out to catch Laschelles’ thrust even as the other tried to press on with his now foiled plan. From the corner of his eye Harry saw the obstacles that had been placed to trip him, and his temper flared.
Arriving at the fencing practice, Elize noticed that everyone had stopped their own practice to watch Harry and Laschelles. It was obvious that Harry had his blood well up. She watched in awe as his savage assault forced his opponent into a desperate defence.
Driving his attack home with fury, he forced Laschelles back, turning him so they changed ends. There was a flurry as blades clashed. Harry used the agility, speed and force learned in the harshest of schools, giving his opponent no room. Laschelles’ defence became increasingly desperate, and fear showed in his eyes as he struggled to keep Harry’s deadly attack at bay and avoid the trip hazards strewn at this end. The constant buzzes registering contact with his opponent’s legs, arm or torso accompanied the ringing clashes of the blades and the exclamations of the spectators.
There was a gasp from the group of onlookers as Laschelles’ sabre flew from his grasp in a parabolic arc as Harry’s blade tore it from his hand. The buzzer sounded continuously as the point of Harry’s sabre struck his opponent’s chest directly over the heart, the blade bending in a dramatic curve as he pressed it home.
Holding his blade’s point against Laschelles, Harry ignored the sounder, and tore off his mask. “When I engage with someone to fence for sport, Mr Laschelles, I do not then seek an advantage by arranging for the piste to be littered with hazards for my opponent. You consider me a fossil,” he spat the word with venom, “but I learned the art of the duel as soon as I could hold a foil. What is more, I have killed men with a blade, not toys such as these, but a real blade while standing on a deck littered with more traps for the unwary than these paltry objects your friends have strewn about. You may call me all the names you like, but do not attempt to play foul with me. I’ll not stand for it.”
He disengaged his blade and turned to walk away even as a Sub Lieutenant hurried toward them calling for him to wait. He was furious and in no mood to discuss what had happened, but his sense of discipline and respect for his officers kept him standing while the Sub Lieutenant lectured them both on correct behaviour and sportsmanship, and then he acknowledged his dismissal with a curt, “Aye, aye sir,” and took his leave.
Elize caught up with him at the door. “My God, Harry, is that how you fellows fought on that old ship of yours? I thought you were going to kill him.” Her laugh sounded forced. “Have you really killed someone with a sword?”
Harry nodded. “Aye. Defending a prison ship against corsairs.” Meeting her shocked gaze, he added angrily, “I was thirteen, and he was twice my size. I used my dirk to defend myself from the ratlines. No, it was not pleasant or c
lean. It was our lives or theirs.” Stopping suddenly, he faced her. “They’d boarded our ship and would have carried us away as slaves along with any of the prisoners they wanted. I had my men use a swivel gun to clear the gangway, then more boarded. One of my men fell to the fellow’s blade, and he’d have killed the other had I not done for him.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the fencing hall. “With a real blade I could have ended that farce in half the time, but I suspect that would have attracted something more than the Sub Lieutenant’s lecture.”
Chapter 10 – Skulduggery
Harry stared into the darkness. Sleep evaded him, driven out by his lingering anger at the betrayal of the abduction and Laschelles’ trick on the fencing piste mingled with anxiety and a degree of disappointment. His budding relationship with Elize had clearly run into difficulties thanks to his own suspicions and wariness of everyone but Ferghal. Huffing with frustration, he tried to find a comfortable position on his back, to no avail. Not even the beautiful music he’d found through the AI helped distract his thoughts.
Idly he explored the latest assignment submissions and grades. Ferghal’s looked very good, as did Keiron’s, but his own had changed. They’d been adjusted downward since his last check a few minutes earlier. As he watched, they changed again, returning to their original mark.
Checking another file, he found that a notation had been added to his record, a decidedly unflattering comment casting doubt on his psychological state. Alarmed, he checked the origin, and was even more puzzled. It had apparently always been there.
Addressing the AI, he said, “I do not recall this record. When did it arrive?”
“These records are not authorised. The alteration was made by an unauthorised access, one that prevents my normal security routines from recognising it. Now that you have identified it to me, I shall alert my maintenance officer. They will investigate it in the morning. The time and date of origin on this record are false. It was posted forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds ago.”
Harry Heron: No Quarter Page 8
