The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

The water suddenly became shallower and he was able to increase his stride.

  He was almost there.

  He turned and felt his legs go weak at the sight of the monster rising up beside him.

  The cottage doorway was just a few feet away, but it was too far and he knew it.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  The final dregs of water around his ankles were sucked down over the cackling pebbles and he knew it was over.

  Time solidified almost to a stop as the colossal wave reached over the top of him, scooped him up and wrapped him in its dark, icy underwater cloak.

  Richard thrashed and reached out, trying to grasp something—anything to stop him from spinning, but there was nothing more that he could do other than to surrender.

  Over and over he rolled beneath the immobilising waves.

  His limbs were becoming heavy and too cold to move.

  His lungs were starting to ache.

  He flipped back over on himself and suddenly his side smashed into something hard and solid that held him firm. But the water kept pushing aggressively against him, trying to force him through the object. He steadied himself—and realised that he was being pinned against a wall—was he inside the cottage?

  He expelled the last of the air in his lungs, knowing that as he did so, he had only moments more to live.

  Darkness—total darkness.

  Time continued to laze and loiter and, of all the moments and thoughts from Richard’s life, the one that dogged him in his watery purgatory was the conceited look on Joseph and Eliza’s face following the Priory Ground rebellion. He hated himself for having failed. He hated himself that their faces would be the last thing he ever saw.

  But the forces acting on his body suddenly switched: the water stopped thrusting him and began to heave him backwards, sucking him away from the wall.

  As he was hauled backwards, Richard spotted a tiny light above him. Moving. Guiding. He determined to use his last energy and the assistance of the turning tide to swim towards it.

  He pushed forwards with every muscle in his body screaming for oxygen.

  The light was growing brighter.

  The pain in his body was searing, no less acute than having a red-hot poker piercing at his muscles through the flesh.

  Finally, time relented and Richard’s head broke the surface of the water.

  Taking huge gulps of air, he opened his eyes fully. He was in the cottage. Upstairs, poking through a tear in the floor. The weak and failing light was from a lantern suspended from an iron hook in the wall, rocking back and forth in the squally wind. Above him, rain poured in through the carcass of roofing beams.

  Richard pulled himself up onto the floor and watched the waves recede behind him.

  ‘You?’ came a rasping voice from the darkness.

  Richard turned and saw the bruised and bloodied face of Joseph Lovekin. He was lying face down on a pile of debris; his face just clear of the lapping water. A thick chunk of oak beam cut across his back, pinning him down.

  ‘Good evening, Joseph,’ Richard said with a smirk. ‘I don’t suppose you imagined seeing me tonight?’

  ‘Help me!’ he rasped, his voice cracking.

  Richard snorted and slid his back down the wall to sit beside Joseph.

  Outside, another giant wave broke and a gush of water bubbled up through the hole in the floor.

  Richard leapt up as the sea hastened to his knees. He watched as Joseph, with great effort, hauled himself up as far as the beam pinning him down would allow, so that his mouth was just inches above the surface of the water.

  ‘Help me,’ Joseph repeated, struggling and straining to hold himself up.

  Richard laughed, taking great pleasure from the panicked look on Joseph’s face; the low glow emanating from the rhythmless rock of the lantern added a haunting, spectre-like quality to his appearance. The water slowly ebbed away and Joseph slumped down hard onto the floor.

  ‘It’s funny, really,’ Richard began, crouching down in front of Joseph. ‘I came here tonight to set a plan in motion to get my own back on you and your wife. I think it’s working, too; your daughter, Harriet seems quite taken with me.’ He paused and watched the rage rise in Joseph’s eyes. ‘Just a few minutes ago I was standing half-naked in your parlour with my arms around her. Sweet girl.’

  The beam on Joseph’s back twitched, as he tried to heave against it; an angry, tiger-like growl roaring from him.

  ‘How would you like your eldest daughter married to a member of the Corporation?’ Richard asked. ‘No, sorry, that wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?’

  Joseph stopped thrusting and his eyes met Richard’s. ‘Certain sure, if I be getting out of here this night, you won’t be even able to think of looking at her again, never mind touch her.’

  Richard grinned. ‘I hardly think-’ he paused, stood up and stepped backwards, as another wave pounded down onto the cottage. Joseph hurriedly lifted his head and took in a gulp of air. The water rose quickly through the floor, submerging everything up to Richard’s waist.

  There was no sign of Joseph Lovekin.

  A sudden crack and long groan came from the front of the house as the lintel above the window acquiesced to the sea’s demands and collapsed inwards, crashing through the floorboards to the ground below.

  From his position at the edge of the room, Richard knew that the building was weakening.

  The waves receded and Joseph’s lifeless body appeared.

  Richard was disappointed that his adversary had died so quickly. He tapped his boot into his head and Joseph flinched. ‘I thought you’d drowned,’ Richard expressed with a chuckle. ‘And I hadn’t finished explaining myself to you.’

  Joseph lifted his head but said nothing.

  ‘As I was saying, I hardly think you’re going to get out of here alive, do you?’ Richard asked, stooping down in front of him. ‘I mean, if the waves don’t kill you, then the building will. Failing that, I will.’

  ‘Why do you be a-doing this?’ Joseph demanded. ‘All because we ain’t paying no rent? That it?’

  Richard laughed. ‘Revenge would be the shortest answer, which I think is probably best given our current circumstances.’ He paused and knelt down, his face just inches from Joseph’s. ‘I thought I held the winning card, too: that I saw you killing that vagabond who attacked your prostitute daughter.’

  Joseph was startled.

  ‘You got away with it: he washed up along the coast and was buried as an unknown sailor. Well done. I planned to use that information against you, to help persuade you to dissolve this pathetic colony of yours from the inside out. Then I was going to use dear Hattie to dissolve your family from the inside out. But this,’ he said, standing and pointing around him, ‘this is too good an opportunity to miss.’

  The beam on Joseph’s back began to lift. The movement was imperceptible to Richard, yet it was enough for Joseph to raise his head and begin to roll the beam down his back.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Richard yelled, leaping down onto the strut of wood.

  The sea made its next attack and Richard knew that it was time. He didn’t have the energy to hold Joseph down for much longer. As the water began to climb into the room, Richard pushed down with all his might. He raised his head as the water enveloped Joseph.

  The wriggling and writhing from beneath him grew less and less intense.

  Then it ceased altogether.

  The water began to recede and Joseph re-emerged. He was slumped on the floor. Water trickled from his open mouth, like the tide retreating from a cave.

  Richard stooped down to check if he was breathing.

  Nothing.

  He placed his hand on his back.

  Nothing.

  Joseph Lovekin was dead.

  Richard stood and exhaled.

  A torrent of wind blasted in from the sea, whipping the lantern from its hook and smashing it to the floor.

  In the ensuing darkness, Richard failed to spot the ro
of truss above, as its fixtures cracked out of place, sending the beam crashing down onto his back.

  Darkness closed around him.

  Silence.

  Chapter Twelve

  30th March 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex

  Stillness and calmness, which had been brutally driven from the America Ground the previous day, had begun to return. The duplicitous sea, that was simultaneously friend and foe to the people of Sussex, remained as perfectly still as a well scolded dog. The timid waves were almost unwilling to break on the shore and witness the destruction that they had wrought. Even the wind had retreated timorously back over the channel, leaving a strange warm emptiness hanging in the air. The usually raucous herring gulls bobbed silently on the water, as if they too were aware of the prevailing mood.

  Christopher Elphick placed his hand in the small of Harriet’s back. They were standing in silence at the edge of Cuckoo Hill beside a few insignificant lumps of wood—all that now remained from the hulk of the Polymina.

  ‘It be like nothing ever happened,’ Harriet stammered, watching three fishing boats far out to sea.

  ‘If you were a-seeing it last night, Hattie…’ Christopher murmured.

  Having arrived here via the back alleyways, Harriet twisted to face the America Ground shoreline for the first time since the storm. With a gasp, she drew her hand over her mouth, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. The entire beach was littered with debris—fragments of wood, stone and glass that gave no hint as to their previous purpose—strewn amongst personal effects—clothes, furniture, food, kitchen apparel and toys—of those whose cottages that had once stood where there now only existed a desolate void. Several women, some of whom Harriet thought that she recognised, were rummaging in the wreckage in search of their belongings. Harriet’s gaze fell on the remains of the stone cottage where Christopher had taken lodgings after his mother’s death and the place that her father’s body had been found. A group of men were milling about outside the house. Christopher had told her that another body—that of a man—had been found near to her father’s, but that they had not yet been able to retrieve it, as part of the building had collapsed around it.

  ‘Take me down there,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you be sure, Hattie?’ he asked.

  She nodded and Christopher took her hand and began the descent to the beach.

  They arrived at the cottage and Harriet felt her legs weaken beneath her. She squeezed Christopher’s hand as she took in the full horror before her. The building was wrecked and she was sure that a pounding from a hundred cannon balls would have caused less destruction. The storm had peeled back the roof and torn down the entire front of the house; all that now remained was a crumbling stone shell of three walls.

  ‘What did he be doing in there?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Helping folk. We were a-thinking that Mrs Woods were trapped. Turns out that she were taking shelter over at her friend’s house.’

  Harriet began to sob and he placed his arm on her shoulder.

  ‘Do there be anything left of your belongings, Christopher?’

  He looked up at where his small bedroom had once been and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  Harriet dried her tears and took his hand. ‘Let us be checking, Christopher; something might have survived.’

  Christopher followed Harriet towards the cottage, choosing their path carefully among the rubbish. ‘I’d not much belongings anyway, Hattie,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘It still be worth looking,’ she answered, beginning to pick among the debris, anxious to find something—anything—to offer some consolation, to assuage the terrible losses that they had suffered.

  Dispiritedly, Christopher joined in and together they moved from one torn up and sodden item to the next. Among the abundance of building materials, they stepped over smashed ornaments, shattered family portraits, dead animals and saturated books.

  Through her watery eyes, Harriet spotted something floating in a small rock pool and she bent down to study it more closely: it was the American flag, torn and ripped. For several seconds she just watched it floating there in the perfect stillness of the water. The extra star that her mother had added had held on defiantly and survived the storm. Harriet went to move on, to continue searching for Christopher’s possessions but the flag drew her back. It was worthless and yet it somehow struck her as an important item to keep—it represented their small community and shouldn’t be left to the mercy of the English Channel. She carefully pulled it from the water and held it out, determined to repair it.

  After some minutes had passed, Christopher called out to Harriet, ‘Let’s be stopping now, Hattie; there ain’t nothing left. What little I had in the world be gone and that be that.’

  Harriet was reluctant to stop but when she glimpsed the hollow look in his eyes, she realised that the futile search was making the situation far worse for him. She realised, too, that part of her motivation stemmed partially from a desire to keep herself occupied, driving from her mind the awful truth that on returning home she would be forced to acknowledge. She nodded. ‘Let’s be going to my house—Ma might be having some things for you.’

  Silently and contemplatively the pair trudged from the beach, leaving behind them the pitiable women, foraging and ferreting before the turning tide reclaimed their property.

  Harriet reached the street door to her house, straightened her shoulders and steadied herself for what she was about to see in the parlour. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and opened the door. She stepped inside with Christopher just behind her.

  Despite being early in the morning, the parlour was darkened by the thin sheet of black baize, which draped down over the window. The subdued fire and the rush lights, which would stay lit until Joseph’s funeral, painted eerie and unnaturally long shadows on the walls. As was customary, the looking glass had been turned around and the clock stopped at eight o’clock last night—the approximate time of her father’s passing.

  Her mother was sewing beside the fire, her face heated and blotchy. She scrutinised Harriet, her eyes narrowing testily. She tossed her garments to the floor and reared up. ‘Hattie, do you be wanting a bannicking?’ she shouted. ‘Look at you! You don’t be wearing an inch of black.’

  Tears began to gather in the corners of Harriet’s eyes. She knew that she shouldn’t be seen out without the appropriate mourning attire, but she had just been desperate to escape the house. She couldn’t have remained, not this morning, not while her mother was preparing him. ‘Sorry, Ma.’

  ‘You be disrespecting him,’ she yelled, pointing to the other side of the parlour—the side that Harriet had thus far avoided acknowledging. ‘Look at him.’

  Harriet turned to face the wooden coffin. She looked at the grain in the wood, counting the numerous dark knots. She studied the two simple brass handles. She caught a glimpse of the inside, then she turned back to face her mother. ‘What are you sewing?’

  Her mother sighed and returned to her seat, picking up the clothing from the floor. ‘I be trying to sew a new lining on my pelisse then I be a-dying it black. I be doing one for each of you girls and all.’

  ‘Ma,’ Harriet began. ‘Christopher’s lost all and everything in the storm. Do we got anything we can be a-giving him?’

  Her mother glanced at Christopher and nodded. ‘You can take Joe’s clothes. He ain’t got much—just one or two outfits. You ain’t quite his size yet, but you be a-growing fast.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lovekin,’ Christopher said. ‘If you be certain sure.’

  ‘That I am. We be a family of girls now with no need for…’ her voice trailed off. ‘You found yourself lodgings, yet, Christopher?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered dismally. ‘I be thinking of trying to track down the whereabouts of me older brother, Charles.’

  Eliza set down her sewing and glanced at Christopher. The look was almost imperceptibly quick, yet Harriet spotted it; something shared, uns
poken but conspiratorial, passed between them.

  ‘I don’t be thinking that a good idea, Christopher. Happen you could lodge here,’ Eliza said.

  Christopher looked taken aback. ‘Here?’

  ‘Think your Ma would be a-liking that, Christopher,’ Eliza said. ‘We went back a long way, me and her. And fegs, I know I be a-needing the help now poor Joe’s passed on.’

  ‘But where will he be sleeping?’ Harriet blurted. She liked Christopher very much but she didn’t want him to be living under the same roof. And what was that look between them all about?

  ‘Don’t you be bothering yourself about that,’ Eliza answered. ‘I be having an idea of putting the rooms above the Black Horse to better use.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lovekin,’ Christopher said. ‘I would be loving to lodge here.’ He faced Harriet. ‘If it don’t be too much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Eliza said.

  ‘I best be getting to work, then,’ Christopher said. ‘Since the storm we got a mountain of shoes to repair.’

  Harriet mumbled a goodbye and forced a smile, whilst searching her feelings for the root of her resentment. It was because of him. She knew it. Richard. He might turn up any evening and he’d find Christopher here. That couldn’t happen. She skulked upstairs, deep in thought.

  It was customary for there always to be a person keeping vigil beside a coffin from death until burial, lest the deceased should wake. Tonight, it was Harriet’s turn to sit beside her father’s body. Her sisters were asleep, her mother was in the Black Horse and Christopher was still at work.

  She was sitting on a chair beside the coffin attempting to repair a long tear in their precious American flag. Her mother would have made a much better reparation, but Harriet wanted it to be she who saved it. She intended to speak with Mr Vine, the mast-maker, and ask for him to erect a new flagpole for it.

  Harriet held her work up to the rush light and was disappointed. The stiches, ill-matching in colour, were obvious and shoddy. No! she thought in frustration, It ain’t good enough to go up no new flagpole! She flung the flag to the floor and rose from her chair.