by Alaric Bond
He switched his gaze to the nearby settlement. It was small, certainly and, due to the high proportion of India Army men about, would probably be very much like Gibraltar. The prospect encouraged him greatly; Gib. was a fine town in his eyes, and one where his particular brand of mischief had prospered well, despite the vast numbers of military and naval personnel who thronged its narrow streets. He had never been to St Helena of course, but had high expectations of the place. It could be just the setting to deal with Hind and Mitchell, or there may be other prey equally suitable. Flint's talk of a lack of pushing houses did not trouble him greatly; doxies were obtainable wherever, if they were properly sought, although despatching that molly had quite woken his taste for the esoteric. He might even try for a military man – maybe a cadet; Timmons was a great admirer of the young. St Helena was also supposed to be well equipped with black folk, both slaves and free: surely one of either status was unlikely to be missed. And if all of that came to naught, there was still the possibility of an officer's wife, or one of the other civilian workers; he especially liked killing women.
The more he thought the faster the ideas came, and it was with a mixture of annoyance and fear that he noticed Jameson looking at him strangely from across the forecastle. He cleared his expression and turned away, but the prospect of further activity still left a warm feeling inside and he knew that never in his life before had he ever been quite so excited.
Chapter Twelve
“And Mr King,” Booker said gruffly. “You will remember my daughter, Julia from breakfast this morning, I am certain.”
King bowed politely and extended his hand, inwardly cursing: of all the names possible, why did she have to be encumbered with one so close to his wife's?
“Did you enjoy your first day on St Helena, Mr King?” she asked, as her father turned away, his mission apparently accomplished.
“It is a pretty and pleasant place,” King replied, stumbling over the words. “Very much like England, in fact; I was surprised.”
They moved from the entrance where Booker was continuing to greet visitors and found a quiet spot in the room that was rapidly filling with guests.
“Surprised it is pleasant,” she asked seriously. “Or so much like England?”
King felt his face grow red. “Both,” he said, then realising his mistake, shook his head. “No, I meant, neither...”
And so ended any ideas he might have held for intimacy, he thought bitterly, while also noticing that her figure actually looked stunning in that white, sheer gown, and how delightfully her eyes danced when she laughed.
“Well, I hope you had an agreeable time.”
“Thank you, yes,” he replied, blushing further.
“And you will be seeing more tomorrow, I find,” she continued, brightening. “An overland trip to Sandy Bay, is that not right?”
“Indeed, we are to scout out the area in the hope of careening my ship.”
“I may show you a map, if it be of any benefit, and perhaps save a day's travel.”
King smiled. “We have examined a chart, but still wish to visit.” He had no reason to doubt the accuracy of an East India Cartographer, but careening a ship was a delicate process and much more investigation would be required, along with greater detail than a few random soundings.
“Well, it is our only true beach,” she told him, “I spent many happy hours there as a child.”
“Have you spent your whole life on St Helena?” he asked.
“Goodness, I hope not!” She was laughing again, but he had grown used to that, and actually was not sorry. At least it meant that he was pleasing her in some way, and she did have the whitest teeth he had ever encountered. “I was born in India, but we came to live here when I was but three, so can remember little of any other place.”
“And have you travelled elsewhere?” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care; to look a fool three times in the course of one conversation would probably be pushing the boundaries too far.
“No, I never have. You must remember how remote we are. Two months at least to England; one to Africa, though there is little there to see when you arrive, or so father tells me. On several occasions I have sailed with the fishing fleet and viewed the place from afar, but that is the furthest I can boast since arriving.”
King shook his head in astonishment. On land many civilians lived and died within a three mile radius, but most went further; to London, or the nearest city, at least once in their adult lives.
“I don't think I have ever met someone who has never been anywhere,” he replied tactlessly, before adding: “But it is no great defect,” in an attempt to make amends.
“Now there I must disagree with you.” He noticed with relief that she had taken his comment in the manner it had been intended. “A lack of travel is a very bad thing; and when you spoke earlier of my having spent all my life here, you were not far from the truth. Being close to the equator means the seasons are not clearly defined: we tend to live more in cycles, from one shipping season to the next. When you look back there is little difference in the years; one just seems to roll into another.”
“But that is terrible.” Again he felt the cold wind of a gaff. “I mean, the place is pleasant and...”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she interrupted, fixing him with those serious brown eyes. “And I concur. It is a big world, Mr King, as I am sure you of all people are aware. Spending an entire life on one single spot is a waste to anyone's thinking.”
“But why?” he asked and she shrugged.
“A lack of opportunity, I would gauge. I could have gone home to school – we think of England as home even though it be many miles away and may never have been visited – but I did not care to be away for what would be my entire childhood. Then my mother became ill and died when I was thirteen. Not too long after I began to take her place, accompanying my father, first to social and then official functions, until eventually I found myself running his household. It is quiet at the moment with the shipping season not yet begun, but in a month or so it will be a different matter. There are balls, and plays for the visiting fleets – sometimes we have fifty or more vessels at anchor at one time – and then I am extremely busy.”
“I can imagine,” King replied. “And do you enjoy it?”
“I enjoy the fresh faces.” She was smiling at him especially now, or so he thought. “And there is something good about always being the host and never the guest. But still I would like to go elsewhere for a spell, if only to properly judge the difference.”
“It seems such a contrary life to mine,” he said. “There are times, such as blockade duty or long spells at anchor, when we see the same horizon for weeks, even months at a time. But those are easily outweighed by others, when the ship may travel a hundred miles or more in one day.” He looked up from the floor where he realised he had been staring. “But you could go, surely? Your father would allow it?”
“Yes I could,” she agreed. “Though sometimes I feel as much enclosed as any slave in our household. Papa would definitely not forbid my leaving, but to where? And with whom? Oh, there was once a man who wanted to take me off St Helena but, as far as I could tell, it was only to install me in his London house, which would be little different.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “And then I discovered he had a country residence as well, and that was where he kept his wife, so the plan rather fell to pieces I am afraid.”
Even to his ears King's obedient laughter sounded false, but fortunately Julia Booker did not seem to notice.
“And so I shall stay,” she continued. “Papa will probably retire in the next ten years or so. He talks of moving away, but I cannot believe that will happen. For a start my mother is buried here; he would be leaving her behind, along with his memories. And there are worse places, Mr King.”
“You may call me Thomas, if you wish,” he said. Her sadness had struck him in an indescribable way; he felt the urge to reach out and touch; to hold her against him, to reas
sure her as if they had been friends for many years, and not just met that morning.
“Thank you, Thomas,” she replied. Her eyes were serious, and seemed to be searching into his. Or was that just his imagination?
* * *
“You have come a long way, Captain,” the vicar informed him sternly. “Doubtless you, and your men will want for spiritual comfort. My church is in Jamestown, you cannot miss the spire.”
“I shall advise my officers accordingly, sir,” Banks replied.
“Should you consider a thanksgiving service to be in order, I am certain one may be arranged. There is a minister aboard your ship, I assume – would he be present this evening?”
“Scylla has no chaplain,” Banks stated firmly. “As a mere fifth rate, we are not obliged to carry one.”
“Not obliged, Captain,” the man's tone was now cold. “But a suitable man may still be appointed, may they not?”
“Indeed, sir, though we have never felt the necessity,” Banks continued, immersing himself further. “I conduct regular worship with the help of my sailing master, Adam Fraiser.”
“Adam Fraiser? The name is familiar.” The cleric appeared doubtful. “Though I own I cannot place it; has he religious training?”
“I do not believe so, sir.” Banks sensed that the conversation was not progressing well; soon he would have to admit that Scylla's regular divine service was very liable to postponement or cancellation. He looked desperately about the room; King was deep in conversation with a pretty young woman and Manning seemed to be engrossed with two surgeons that Banks had been introduced to earlier. If only Fraiser had agreed to accompany them ashore he might have been able to palm this persistent little man off on him. Then a familiar face caught his attention and, catching his eye, Colonel Robson headed across the room, with a smartly dressed artillery officer in tow.
“Well, at the very least you must allow me to visit your ship,” the vicar was continuing; a look of acid disapproval now firmly fixed upon his face. “No doubt there will be much work to be done.”
“Reverend, you will not mind me interrupting,” Robson said, sparing Banks any need to reply. “Sir Richard, may I introduce Duncan Morris?”
Banks took in the figure of a young man, probably less than twenty-five years old. He was elegantly clad in what closer inspection revealed was obviously an expensively tailored uniform.
“Major Morris is in overall charge of the artillery on this island,” Robson continued, turning his back on the vicar, and effectively excluding him from the conversation.
“Including those that are currently protecting your ship,” the young officer simpered.
Banks inclined his head. “My ship is quite able to protect herself, thank you, Major,” he said, evenly. “Although I do appreciate the benefit of your shore batteries, of course.”
“If she were able, Sir Richard,” Morris replied slowly, his words carefully chosen, “Then I am surprised that she is in quite so beat-up a state.”
A chill seemed to fall upon the room, and Banks was almost certain that the general hubbub of conversation also dwindled slightly. He stared at Major Morris; neither his name, nor face meant anything, and yet the man bore an animosity that was both obvious and uncommon at a first meeting.
“My ship was damaged while fighting a squadron of three enemy warships,” Banks said, just as deliberately.
“Then I suppose we should congratulate you for arriving at all,” the younger man replied, unabashed. “But it is indeed a shame that you did not take greater care of my uncle.”
“Dash it all, I had quite forgotten,” Robson blustered, trying to drag Banks away. “Young Morris here was indeed Sir Terrance's nephew...”
“I had nothing to do with your uncle's death,” Banks said, standing his ground.
“As will be shown in the enquiry I am sure, Sir Richard,” Robson added soothingly. “Morris, I think the Booker girl may need rescuing; go to her, will you?”
Banks stood stony faced while the young man nodded at the lieutenant governor, glared at him, and then turned slowly on his heel to where King and Booker's daughter were deep in conversation.
“Don't mind him, old man,” Robson said softly. “Bit of a firebrand, and hasn't got the manners he was born with. But a splendid officer none the less.”
“If he was regular army I would report him for insubordination,” Banks replied stiffly, as the sound of a gong echoed about the room.
“Well, I'm sure there is no need for that; I say, that sounds like dinner at last. And look, there is Lady Banks; come let us go through and eat.”
* * *
“Won't be no provision nor need for chests where we's goin', so make sure your ditty bags is good and full, then when we leaves, it will be the easier.” Draude, who was now a fully-fledged boatswain's mate, moved amongst the crowded berth deck. The first watch was freshly set; those below had been expecting to sling their hammocks and were taken aback by the change of routine. Jameson collected his canvas bag and joined Flint at the back of the disorderly queue that would eventually lead them down to the orlop.
“I'd take a fair supply of woollens with you,” the older man told him. “I've known islands like this before. Don't care how near or far they is to the line, them's always got a chill in the breeze.”
“How long do you suppose we'll be ashore?” Jameson asked, as they reached the head of the wide companionway.
“Blessed if I know,” Flint shrugged. “But if they're gonna set the barky to rights, it'll be a while.”
“How shall they fix her?”
“Now you're askin'.” Flint rolled his eyes. The darkness of the orlop seemed to have been made even more apparent by many points of light provided by an unusual number of lanthorns. Both hatches were open, and work was underway in the holds. The two seamen glanced down as they shuffled past, and Jameson raised a hand to Mitchell, who was helping to manoeuvre a leaguer in his deep and private underworld.
“Might be able to rig a dry dock, though I can't see it m'self,” Flint mused, as they reached the seamen's storage area. “Less the India boys have been diggin' somewhere we don't know about. Otherwise they'll just have to beach her on her beam ends, which will mean all this lot will have to go, includin' the cannon.”
Jameson pulled a face; that much work was not going to be easy, and a position as topman would not excuse him in any way.
“Even beaching her won't be an easy manoeuvre; plenty have been laid down for careening what never get's up again,” Flint continued morosely. “An' the barky will be dead exposed if that Frenchman comes a lookin'. Ask me it will be better to head for the Cape and see what they're capable of. But I ain't the captain,” he added, as if in explanation.
The chests had been laid out in a ragged line by the holders. Flint and Jameson found the one they shared and opened it. Jameson's ditty bag only contained his sewing kit, and a spare pair of trousers. To them he added two shirts, all five of his stockings and, taking note of Flint's earlier advice, a gansey.
“When we going then, Mr Lewis?” Flint asked, as a crisply dressed warrant officer passed by.
The master's mate snorted; he and Flint went way back, and had even shared a mess when Lewis was a regular hand. “Blowed if I knows, Flint. But they're preparing to lighten ship on deck as well, so I'd say it'd be tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. Whatever, the cap'n ain't gonna waste no time, and while we're leaking like the proverbial sieve he's probably right.”
* * *
Despite the young artillery officer's offensive behaviour, Banks decided he had enjoyed the meal. The food was every bit as good as he had come to expect, while the rest of the HEIC staff had demonstrated how experienced they were as hosts, and done all they could to put their guests at ease. There was, perhaps, a slight underlying tension separate from the open hostility of Major Morris, but then he supposed that was inevitable, and in reality he was being treated extremely well.
After all, the council had been expe
cting a new leader; someone to head their small, but efficient team. Rather than that, Banks had delivered a decidedly troublesome yet influential woman, as well as apparently leading a powerful French squadron to threaten their small enclave. Worse, there was also the not so minor liability of a Royal Navy warship in desperate need of both repair and victuals and effectively relying on their mercy. And until that particular problem could be addressed, her crew of more than two hundred must also be housed and fed. Yes, Banks decided, he was being treated extraordinarily well. He might just as easily have been shunned or politely told that, however honourable the East India Company claimed to be, they had been severely let down, and could accept no further responsibility for him, or his command.
“Did you meet Henry Booker's daughter?” Sarah asked, as she joined him in the small dressing room that was part of their quarters in Longwood House. “Quite a beauty, and has never been off the island, or so I collect.”
Banks undid his stock, and pulled it free. He had indeed noticed a young woman; she stood out as almost all the other ladies present had been well into their forties.
“She is his daughter?” he asked, absent-mindedly. “I had no idea.”
“Well what did you think, Richard?” Sarah pulled a face at him in the large mirror. “The girl is far too young to be his wife. Tom King was paying her particular attention, I noticed.”
“King is married,” Banks said firmly, and in a voice far more suited to the captain of a frigate than Sarah's husband.
“No man is married south of the equator,” she replied, before pointing at her husband and adding: “except for you, of course.”
“Still, I cannot believe King would be disloyal,” Banks said softly. “Why he even made arrangements to have his wife collected from Holland; such an operation must have cost a small fortune.”
“Maybe so, but then he is also a young man, and as prone to natural instincts as any of his type.”
