by Alaric Bond
Banks was quiet for a moment as he thought. He had a small enough team of officers as it was, and could not afford the loss of even one to foolish affairs or romance. “If you are serious, then I must see to it that they never meet again,” he said, finally.
“In that case you have not made a very good start,” Sarah told him.
He turned from unbuttoning his shirt to stare at her. “What do you mean?”
“They are setting off at first light, do you not remember?” she replied, wiping the rouge from her face and adding a small dash of cream from a china pot. “Henry Booker was organising it, just as we were leaving. Horses, servants, food – quite an expedition, from what I could gather.”
“He promised a guide to show Caulfield and King Sandy Bay,” Banks said, confused. It had actually been agreed at the morning's meeting: Booker was merely confirming the next day's itinerary at the end of the evening. Sandy Bay was the only area of the island that had a beach anything like suitable for careening a ship of Scylla's size. All of the governing body were of the opinion it would still not be appropriate, but Banks wanted his own officers to confirm the fact. “I must confess at the time I failed to see why they needed such a party,” he said. “And certainly not horses, not on an island this size.”
“Well if you had listened beyond the horses you might have heard mention of his daughter acting as guide.”
Banks shook his head; he had not heard. The day had been especially taxing which made it roughly the same as so many others that preceded it.
“I suppose I could send Fraiser instead,” he mused, reaching for the nightshirt that was conveniently laid out for him and had clearly been laundered since the previous night. “Or perhaps a master's mate?”
“Oh, I should not concern yourself,” Sarah said, leaving the small room, and heading next door for the oversized bed. “They cannot get into so much trouble in one day.”
“Besides, Caulfield will be with them,” he grunted, joining her.
“Yes, Michael will be there,” she agreed. “And even Tom King might find his youthful instincts dulled somewhat if he is sitting on a horse.”
Chapter Thirteen
In fact the provision of horses turned out to be eminently sensible. The road to Sandy Bay wound up and down some of the steepest hills King had ever encountered, and the short, stocky animal he rode, actually more of a mule than a horse, hardly missed a step despite the loose ground and some genuinely memorable gradients. But by midday, when they had been travelling for over four hours, he was starting to tire; both his back and belly were far more used to keeping balance on a heaving deck, and ached from the erratic motion of the horse, while his rump felt as raw as ten-day-old mutton. Ahead, Caulfield and Julia were deep in conversation, something that should have caused him concern, but somehow King could not summon the energy to worry. He might be a widower and ostensibly free, but the first lieutenant was also considerably older, and a dry old stick at the best of times. He did not think Julia would be swayed by his charms, not when King had all but monopolised her company for most of that morning.
She had turned out to be just as captivating as he had sensed: a bright, witty mind, with just the right degree of humour. In turn King felt he had finally made a good impression, and such a thing was not easy when they were on her home ground and she was very much the guide. Their conversation only ended when Caulfield tumbled from his mount. It was not a bad fall; poor old Michael had more or less rolled off, landing sideways on the dense and forgiving turf. The action had amused everyone however, including the three servants who were following on foot, and even evoked open astonishment from his horse. Julia had gone to the first lieutenant’s aid, helped the older man back up, and stayed with him ever since. But by then the sun was up and King, who had been growing increasingly hot for a while, was not sorry. He knew that his conversation was starting to flag; to his mind it was far better that she should be bored by the balding, and slightly portly Caulfield for a while. Besides, there would be plenty of time for him to be with her later: he had already discovered she kept her own set of rooms in Booker's house, and more or less arranged to visit her there.
“We're just passing over Sandy Bay Ridge.” King looked up as Julia's voice broke into his thoughts. The couple had stopped a little way ahead, and she was turning on her saddle to shout to him. Bringing himself back to the real world was something of an effort, and King spurred his mount on in an attempt to appear more wide awake than he felt.
“It's not far now,” she continued, as he neared. On the left there is Diana's Peak; the highest point on the island. Just behind it is Mount Actaeon, and shortly we'll be passing Cuckold's Point.”
Cuckold's Point. It was not the best of omens for such an outing, but King nodded, and tried to look intelligent, even if the sun was extremely hot, and he so longed for a chance to get off the damned animal. Something of this must have conveyed itself to the girl, and she smiled when he finally reached her.
“Poor Tom; you look entirely washed out. What say we stop under those trees and rest up for a spell?”
King didn't appreciate the fact the she had noticed him wilting, but the small copse of what looked like mimosa appeared far too inviting to ignore, and he followed when she and Caulfield turned their horses off the path.
It was certainly cooler under the flowery canopy; King dismounted stiffly and stretched his legs that seemed determined to make him look as if he had been struck with rickets. Midshipman Jackson, who had been the back marker as suited his lowly status, followed, and also reined in his horse, before nonchalantly dismounting in such an expert manner that King was both annoyed and grudgingly impressed.
“Haven't been for a proper ride in years,” the lad told the lieutenant, the novel surroundings, and relative distance from all things nautical apparently giving him licence to speak casually. One of Julia's servants, a young black man with broad shoulders and a gentle countenance, came and collected both horses, leading them away to where the others were being watered. Another, an older woman with a white and broad smile, unloaded the wicker basket she had been carrying on her head for the entire journey, and began to sort through the contents with a girl who may well have been her daughter.
“There is nothing substantial for luncheon,” Julia said as she and Caulfield wandered across. “Cold pie, and some fruit. Father thinks there should be time sufficient for you to do your work, and be back for supper, but we have made good time and can still take a half hour's break now.”
She was wearing a long, grey dress, and sported a straw hat, not dissimilar to those worn by many of Scylla's regular hands in hot weather. The low brim emphasised her deep brown eyes and, as she sat down and arranged herself elegantly on the turf, King felt a sensation of desire that was very nearly painful. Caulfield planted himself next to her with an air of proprietorship, and King was quick to move in to the other side before Jackson could claim the spot. The younger female servant appeared with a large pewter jug, from which she poured something clear into beakers. Drinks were duly passed out, with the girl smiling not too subtly into the midshipman's eyes; an act that was promptly repaid by a reddening in Jackson's complexion.
“Lemonade,” Julia said, taking hers, and sniffing appreciatively. “We have been blessed with a good harvest this year,” she said. “And not just lemons, all seem to have done especially well.”
“I noticed a lot of fruit trees on the way up,” Caulfield said. “It looks so much like England.”
“So I understand,” Julia replied. “Though strangely St Helena is not quite as hot, nor as cold as home. We get two crops of apples a year, and some are truly enormous. And there are the blackberries of course; they were introduced a few years ago, but have grown to be rather a nuisance. I understand that peaches used to be quite prolific as well – so much so that people would feed them to their pigs. But of late they have started to be attacked by some sort of fly. Now they are hard to grow, but delicious when they do.”
> King was struck again by the whiteness of her teeth when she spoke; in fact all the usual signs were there and, when combined with such magical and slightly surreal surroundings, he knew for sure that he was firmly on the downward path to destruction.
“There is a hen and ham pie,” she said, taking a proffered plate from the older servant. “Thomas, will I cut you a slice?”
King accepted readily, although his reaction would have been identical if she were offering something far less appealing. He sipped at his lemonade, and looked about. The scenery had changed once more. Caulfield was right, it had appeared very English on the ascent, but now exotic trees and wild ferns had taken over from the traditional oak and willow; there were brightly coloured shrubs that King could not begin to identify, as well as long spindly trees almost bereft of foliage. He knew that what Julia had blithely referred to as mountains were in reality hardly more than steep and ambitious hills, but even they had a distinct shape that marked them out. Some large houses were set precariously into their steep slopes; apparently summer residences for Company officers and factors. And at other times he had noticed small idyllic cottages surrounded by their own land and seemingly intent on enticing him with a magical way of life, far removed from the normal stresses of fighting a war. Even the insects that buzzed, unseen, in the undergrowth added something bewitching to the place, and the contrasting scent of gum tree and fresh heather rounded off the impression nicely. It was all so very different from the bleak and barren prospect they first sighted from the sea.
“We only should take half an hour,” Julia prompted, and King hurriedly paid attention to the untouched pie on his plate. Jackson had finished his, and accepted another chunk, which he consumed with a lad's appetite, although Caulfield seemed strangely reticent, and hardly nibbled at his piece.
“Could you stand an impertinent question?” the first lieutenant asked while the remains of their meal were being taken away by the women, and the manservant had gone to fetch the horses.
“That rather depends on the subject, Mr Caulfield,” Julia replied, suddenly coltish.
“It is the servants,” the older man, now serious, continued. “They are slaves I assume?”
“They are,” Julia agreed. “Though at times I have to remind myself of the fact.” She looked more closely at his face. “You are shocked, clearly.”
“Not shocked so very greatly,” Caulfield confessed; he had already found himself growing fond of Miss Booker, and had no wish to crush her in argument. “I have come across such labour before, and they seem far more content than others; certainly those I met on the American plantations.”
“That is probably the case,” Julia reflected. “Most have lived on this island for several generations and I think are as satisfied as any in domestic service. They are well fed and provided for, with a full day off in every seven – more than their counterparts in England receive, I am told.”
“Their counterparts are not slaves,” Caulfield reminded her gently.
“Maybe not,” Julia agreed. “But all must work: surely there is little difference how they were recruited?”
“The difference is choice,” Caulfield persisted.
“And you are saying that an English servant has choice? Why yes, I suppose you are correct – they can choose whether they work, or starve.”
There was polite laughter from Jackson and King, but Julia was well into her stride.
“None of our people are forced into labour; we are not inclined to use the whips or battens common in some countries, and if they were severely unhappy I am certain papa would organise a transfer, or even return them to their home country, assuming one could be identified. But even then they might not find life any the better; there are few of us who can survive for long without some form of labour and for most their home might turn out to be as foreign to them as England would be to me.”
“But slavery is morally wrong,” Caulfield said, with rather less conviction.
“Oh, I entirely agree with you,” Julia replied instantly. “And things are changing, on St Helena, at least: there have been no new slaves imported for almost ten years – no other British settlement can say the same. My father pays a small allowance to those he employs, and they receive both medical attention and accommodation. Most marry and raise families, and if it is that their children grow up to work in the same manner, is that so very different from the system of family trades common throughout Europe and the Americas?”
Caulfield nodded his head gravely. “What you say is true, and this is not a perfect world, but still I cannot justify abducting a man and forcing him into labour: it is against the laws of nature.”
“Indeed?” she asked innocently. “And are there other Englishmen who share your views?”
“A growing band,” he confirmed with obvious pride. “I do not say we will be successful straight away; but in time the world shall come to see and acknowledge the error.”
“So a man should not be forced to work, even though it might ultimately mean his survival?” She said the words slowly, as if they were being learned and committed to memory. King grew suspicious, but Caulfield clearly sensed he was on the edge of a conversion.
“I believe it is his right to choose,” he said emphatically. “And no one should do so for him.”
“And you would never be a party to such a thing?” she enquired.
“On the contrary, I should do all I could to prevent it,” Caulfield confirmed, with perhaps slightly too much self-righteousness.
“Well then, I must express my surprise,” Julia said after a short pause. “For, as far as I was aware, the Royal Navy is still abducting men, and forcing them to sea. I wonder that you have none on board your own ship, Mr Caulfield?”
Jackson coughed, King snorted, but the first lieutenant only went a slightly darker shade of pink. “You are talking about pressing a man for the king's service,” he objected. “That is a different matter entirely.”
“Why so?” Julia asked. “Because someone in government has decided it to be the case? I see no variation; indeed your method of slavery is surely far worse. A victim of the press gang is forced to work, if he does not he will certainly be beaten – should he try to escape he may very well be hanged and, even if he accepts his fate, the chances of his dying either of disease, drowning, or in battle are extremely high.”
“It is not the same,” Caulfield said, shaking his head sadly.
“Maybe not, Michael,” Julia agreed in a softer tone. “But there is a similarity, you must allow?”
The horses were ready, and even though he was still uncomfortably stiff, King rose first and made for them. Julia's words had impressed him in several ways. There were certain unwritten rules of social etiquette and one effectively forbade any woman from arguing with a man. Exceptions occurred, of course: intimate friends or close relatives might surely bicker, although King had been brought up expecting a husband's word to always be respected. But Julia had not only argued, she had done so well: setting the first lieutenant up perfectly, and then delivering the coup de grâce with all the skill of a seasoned debater. Perhaps it was the isolated world that she lived in? Maybe a lack of polite society meant that she was one of those modern females who took little heed of protocol, and actually had the effrontery to make up her own mind? Kate was one but even she, King decided, would not be so direct with her thoughts, nor as clinical in the way they were presented. It was a decidedly radical stance in what was, after all, a man's world, and one he was not sure if he approved of. But at least he could discount any threat of Caulfield becoming a potential suitor. That possibility had now been firmly removed.
* * *
It would be bearding the lioness in her den and may well come to nothing, but when Booker suggested visiting Lady Hatcher at the governor's country home, Banks supposed the idea had some merit. But it was not a visit he was prepared to undertake alone, not through any physical or psychological fear of the woman, but nearly three months cooped up
in a ship of war had taught him a little of her ways. Throughout that time she had never been one to hold her tongue and, if she were to repeat any of the threats or allegations made towards the end of their voyage, he would rather she did so in the presence of a witness.
Booker was the ideal person, being not only a Company man but, having no prior knowledge of either party before their arrival on the island, might legitimately be presented as neutral, should he be called to a court of enquiry. The man was not altogether keen however, causing Banks to wonder if he were concerned about Hatcher's political power reaching even such a far flung outpost as St Helena. But then, as the suggestion had originally come from him, he could hardly refuse.
“You are late,” an obviously rejuvenated Lady Hatcher informed them upon their being shown into her presence. Not only was she wearing different, and far smarter clothes, but her skin and hair had been attended to. The face appeared younger, and it was even conceivable that she had lost a little weight, but there was no disguising the cold tone in her voice, or the hard direct stare that was used without restraint. Banks had privately hoped a few days on the island might have mollified the woman. She had gone through the trauma of losing her husband, after all, and Scylla was no palace; some time away, enjoying magnificent countryside, eating good, fresh food and taking reasonable exercise might have made a change, although that was clearly not to be.
“My fault entirely,” Booker said, with nonchalant gallantry. “The government coach made good time, but we were inconvenienced by a flock of sheep that blocked the road by Steer's Common and proved unusually stubborn.”
If Booker had hoped the tale and his telling of it would lighten the atmosphere or even induce humour he was mistaken, and hurriedly cleared his throat in reaction to the woman's set stare.
“Well, if we have to meet we can do so in the library,” she said, leading them into a side room where a uniformed man stood up from his seat. “You both know my late husband's nephew, I believe.” Morris nodded briefly at Booker, but declined to acknowledge Banks in any way, and no handshakes were exchanged. “I assumed you would be bringing a witness, Sir Richard, so there will be no objections to Duncan being present; and you won't be requiring tea, I am certain.”
