Storm Tide Read online

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘What it looks like.’

  ‘You . . .’ There were not words to express the betrayal he felt. ‘I trusted you.’

  ‘I had no choice. I owe Spinkley far more money than you. If my father cut me off, I would have a choice between the debtors’ prison and the garrison of some fever-ridden island.’

  ‘You led me to borrow all that money. You knew the warehouse would burn down.’ Rob struggled to comprehend it. ‘I thought we were friends.’

  He thought he saw a flicker of guilt in Hugo’s eyes, though it passed so quickly he could not be sure.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Hugo said again, desperate for Rob to believe him. ‘There are powerful men who want you destroyed.’

  One of Spinkley’s men stepped forwards and grabbed the bundled sword. Rob refused to release it. The two men struggled. Then a blow from a club struck Rob’s upper arm and it went numb. The sword was pulled from his grasp.

  The bailiff handed it to Spinkley. He unwrapped it, holding it up to admire the workmanship.

  ‘Really, it is quite exquisite.’

  The sight of the sword in those fat, greedy hands was like a blade through Rob’s heart. He lunged at Spinkley, but the bailiffs held him back.

  ‘Do not blame yourself, young Courtney,’ Spinkley told him. ‘Almost from the moment you arrived in London, your destruction was inevitable.’

  Rob struggled against the hands that held him. He craned his head to get a glimpse of the Dunstanburgh Castle, hoping that Cornish might spy him and send help. But no one stirred on her decks.

  ‘You have the sword!’ he cried. ‘Does that not satisfy the debt? Why don’t you let me go?’

  ‘With the interest you accumulated, this is not enough to pay what you owe.’ Spinkley fondled the weapon, staring at the jewelled pommel as if he wanted to lick it. ‘Take him to the Marshalsea prison.’

  All the terrible stories Rob had heard of the debtors’ prison hit him like a hammer blow. Without friends or family to pay for his upkeep in the more comfortable gentlemen’s wing, he would be sent to the common side, where men were crammed in foetid cells without even space to lie down. He would never escape.

  He stared at Hugo, looking for some trace of pity.

  ‘Please . . .’ he begged. ‘Do not let them do this. For our friendship.’

  Hugo could not meet his eye. ‘I am sorry, Rob. I did not want it to end this way.’

  He turned with a swish of his coat and disappeared up the busy street. Two of the bailiffs grabbed Rob, while the other two began to open a path through the crowd.

  Rob let his knees buckle so that all his weight dropped onto the men holding him. Before they could tighten their grip, he stamped down as hard as he could on one of the bailiffs’ feet.

  The man let go. Rob twisted around and sank his teeth into the other bailiff’s hand. There was a howl of pain; Rob was free. He sprang away towards the wharf. The Thames was rank with sewage and strong currents, but Rob was a good swimmer. If he could reach the Dunstanburgh Castle, he might be saved.

  A hand reached out for him. It missed his shoulder, but caught the billowing fabric of his shirtsleeve, tugging him back. Rob threw himself forwards. The sleeve tore away and was left behind as he lunged towards the edge of the wharf. Five more paces . . .

  He never saw what tripped him – one of the bailiff’s clubs, or a mooring ring, or a bystander who thought he was doing his civic duty. All he felt was a rap against his shin, and then the pavement came flying up to meet him. He struck his chin and sprawled on the ground.

  He was so close to the river his arms stretched over the edge of the wharf. He could see the brown water flowing almost under his nose. He was so close. Shaking off the pain in his skull, he pushed himself up for the final lunge.

  A heavy weight crushed him to the ground. One of the bailiffs had leaped on top of him. Rob tried to throw him off, but the man was too heavy. The bailiff held his cudgel against Rob’s neck and pushed until he almost broke Rob’s windpipe. The others gathered around, aiming vengeful kicks at Rob’s head and ribs. He no longer had any thought of escape. All he wanted was to protect himself.

  Through a haze of pain, Rob heard Spinkley’s agitated voice shouting, ‘For God’s sake do not kill him! Baron Dartmouth wants his prize alive!’

  The beating stopped. Rough arms hauled him to his feet. One of the bailiffs wrapped Rob’s torn shirtsleeve around the bleeding bite on his hand. He gave Rob a look that promised more pain as soon as Spinkley’s back was turned.

  ‘Get him out of my sight,’ said Spinkley. His face was flushed from the effort of chasing after Rob; his coat was askew. ‘Put him in the Marshalsea and tell the jailer to go hard on him. We will break his rebellious spirit once and for all.’

  ‘Halt!’ cried a voice.

  Despite his pain, Rob looked up. A tall man in a blue navy uniform had appeared, a lieutenant’s stripe on his sleeve. A group of sailors in short jackets and trousers accompanied him. He pointed to the tattoo on Rob’s bare arm, exposed where the shirtsleeve had been ripped away.

  ‘This man is a sailor.’

  ‘He is a prisoner,’ said Spinkley testily.

  The lieutenant looked down his nose at Spinkley. He was not an old man, but his hair was powder-white, cut short so that it stood straight up from his scalp. His face was taut, so that the skull bones underneath jutted with unsettling prominence. His eyes were a piercing blue.

  ‘By order of the King, I am empowered to press any seaman I find into His Majesty’s navy, to fight in the war with America. I am seizing this man.’

  Spinkley drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘As you will know, it is expressly prohibited for the navy to take any man who is imprisoned for debt. As Mr Courtney is.’

  ‘I see no prison.’

  ‘We were on our way there this instant.’

  ‘Has he been charged before a magistrate?’

  ‘No!’ blurted out Rob. ‘I am a sailor. I shipped on the Dunstanburgh Castle under Captain—’ He broke off as one of the bailiffs slapped him across the mouth. But there was doubt in their faces. The lieutenant had a dozen armed sailors with him, a sword at his side and a pistol in his belt.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ spluttered Spinkley. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Lieutenant Henry Coyningham, of His Majesty’s Ship Perseus.’

  ‘Do you know on whose orders I arrested this man?’ said Spinkley.

  Coyningham waited expectantly.

  ‘Baron Dartmouth, the President of the Board of Trade and Plantations. If you defy him, I promise you will end your career commanding a fishing boat in the fever islands.’

  Coyningham gave a shrug. ‘If your patron wishes to complain, he may take it up with the Admiralty. They will not censor me for doing my duty.’

  Two of his men grabbed Rob roughly and led him to a knot of sad-looking men waiting with the other sailors. The bailiffs tapped their clubs in their palms, but they were overmatched and they knew it. There was nothing they could do.

  Rob fell in with the pressed men, shuffling into the middle of the group for protection. The man beside him looked up.

  ‘You must have offended someone right royally. What did you do?’

  Dazed, Rob could only shake his head. ‘I wish I knew.’

  The man stood a head shorter than Rob, but he had meaty hands, strong arms and a stocky frame. A black eye and a crooked nose said he had used his fists in anger, and recently, but his face was kind. When he grinned, it was the first sincere smile Rob had seen since what felt like eternity.

  He stuck out his hand. ‘Angus MacNeil,’ he said in a soft Scottish accent.

  Robert shook his hand. ‘Robert Courtney.’

  Up front, Spinkley had departed with a final round of curses and threats and dark looks at Rob. The lieutenant turned his back on him and shouted orders to his sailors.

  ‘Move on. We need a dozen more men if we are to earn our keep – and we must have them in the pressroom by nightfall.’

  B

  y next morning, Rob wondered if he had been saved after all. There seemed little to choose between the navy and what he had heard about the Marshalsea prison. From the wharf, he was taken to a room above a pub that the lieutenant had hired for the purpose. When it was full, the recruits were transferred to a tender and taken downriver to a mastless hulk anchored away from shore. Rob and the others were prodded down a ladder into an airless room on the orlop deck. A grating was put over them, with four marines standing guard.

  ‘They treat us no better than prisoners,’ complained one of the recruits – a youth named Thomas who looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘I volunteered for this. They should not treat me like a felon.’

  ‘I was in prison till yesterday, when the lieutenant called,’ said Angus. He had a blunt manner of speaking that reminded Rob of his grandfather. ‘I promise you, this is better.’

  ‘Why were you in prison?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Mayhem.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Mayhem is a criminal offence consisting of the deliberate maiming of a person which leaves said person unable to defend himself in combat.’ He sounded as if he was reciting a charge sheet. ‘In English, it means I cut a man’s arm off.’

  Rob wasn’t sure what to say; but nor did he want Angus to take offence at his silence.

  ‘Did he deserve it?’ Rob asked.

  Angus shrugged. ‘I thought so. I asked him to stop what he was doing, and he refused.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Fucking my wife.’

  Rob considered that. ‘I’d say it was lucky for him you only cut off his arm.’

  Angus laughed. ‘Aye.’
br />   T

  en miles upriver, Hugo Lyall had the luxury of more agreeable surroundings. But the plush carpet underfoot; the fat sofas trimmed with gold brocade; the glass of the finest port in his hand: none of it gave him an ounce of comfort. Not with Baron Dartmouth’s acid stare eating through him.

  ‘He escaped?’

  ‘The purest chance,’ Hugo pleaded. ‘Nothing could have prevented it.’

  ‘You were there. You should have prevented it.’ Dartmouth tapped his artificial hand on the table. ‘You know what I do to those who fail me.’

  Hugo swallowed. ‘He cannot have gone far.’

  ‘The press gang will have taken him to the hulks at Deptford,’ added Spinkley. He had been summoned with Hugo, sweating profusely in his thick coat. ‘It will be some days still before he is assigned to a ship.’

  Dartmouth said nothing. He raised his gold hand and drew it across his throat.

  Hugo’s mouth dropped open as he realised what Dartmouth wanted of him.

  ‘You can hardly expect me to break into a man-of-war and murder someone.’

  Dartmouth studied him. Whatever happened, he must not be implicated. But if he left Hugo to his own devices, there was no telling what mischief the young fool would cause.

  ‘There is a man I know,’ said Dartmouth at last. ‘He can take care of such matters discreetly. I will send him to call on you. You will make the necessary arrangements with him.’

  Hugo nodded. A week ago, he would not have imagined himself capable of even striking a man. He had known that he was driving Rob to ruin, that the warehouse would burn and leave him penniless, but he had still clung to the excuse that Rob would not be hurt. Now, even murder seemed better than having to face that terrible stare.

  Dartmouth still had not finished with him.

  ‘The other matter we spoke of. You did as I instructed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo eagerly, thankful that the conversation had moved away from murder. ‘I asked Rob how to find Nativity Bay.’ He repeated what Rob had told him, about the bay and whale-backed promontory a thousand miles from Cape Town. ‘He says he could not miss it.’

  Dartmouth grunted. ‘And the sword?’

  Spinkley pulled out the bundle, still wrapped in the coat.

  ‘I had thought,’ he said, ‘that your lordship might permit me to keep it.’

  Dartmouth raised his hooded eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘In consideration of my aid in this matter. Robert Courtney owed me a great deal of money, and, ah . . .’

  ‘If you wish to leave this room alive, you will give me the sword this instant.’

  Spinkley laid the bundle on the desk. The coat fell open, bathing Dartmouth’s face in reflected golden light. Dartmouth leaned over it, slavering like a dog presented with a bone. His reflection gazed back at him a hundred times in the many facets of the sapphire.

  ‘I am sure your lordship would want to compensate me for the losses I have incurred,’ Spinkley said.

  Dartmouth raised his head. He pulled the sword from its scabbard and sliced it through the air, so close to Spinkley’s face it almost took the skin off his nose.

  ‘Go!’ he bellowed.

  Spinkley did so, followed by Hugo, who would not have run faster if all the devils of Hell had been chasing him.

  After they had gone, Dartmouth stared at the sword for a long time. Eventually, he took up his pen and wrote a letter to his son, Gerard Courtney, in Calcutta. His writing was crabbed and awkward, a tangle of angry scores and splashes of ink. After he lost his hand, he had had to teach himself to do everything left-handed. He wrote furiously, the thirst for revenge dripping from his pen.

  Tom Courtney’s heirs live in Africa at a place called Nativity Bay. You will find it some thousand miles north-east of Cape Town, behind a cape that takes the shape of a whale. If you honour your duty as a Courtney and as my son, you will engage a ship forthwith and scour that coast. I need not tell you what to do when you find them.

  When last I wrote, I told you that Tom’s great-grandson Robert had arrived in London. But do not worry on that account. By the time you read this, he will be dead.

  R

  ob woke from a nightmare. He’d been dreaming he was back in Nativity Bay, swimming in the azure waters. A shark had approached, and however fast Rob swam he could not escape. The jaws closed around him, squeezing tighter and tighter until Rob felt his bones snap.

  He woke with a spasm. The jerk shook Angus, lying beside him; he rolled over in his sleep and knocked the man next to him. The recruits were jammed so tight in the press room, the least movement would disturb all of them.

  He lay awake, listening to the darkness around him. It must be nearly dawn: a grey half-light seeped through the gunport that had been cracked open for air. Rob had thought the hammocks on the Dunstanburgh Castle were packed close, but that was luxury compared to the press room. If this was how the navy treated its recruits, what would life be like when he finally boarded their ships?

  It was better than the alternative.

  But it was little consolation. Ever since he was small, he had hated to run away from danger. More than once, in the African bush, his stubbornness had earned him scars and broken bones. Now he was fleeing from his debts, evading his enemies and leaving behind the only precious thing he owned: the Neptune sword.

  If he jumped ship, he would be a deserter as well as a debtor. Instead of jail, he would be looking at the hangman’s noose. And to the list of his enemies would be added the might of the Royal Navy.

  His enemies. He had come to London – he thought – without an enemy in the world. How had he made such powerful foes? Certainly he owed Spinkley money, and perhaps Spinkley had turned Hugo against him. But he had seen something in both their faces that was more than greed. Fear. They were afraid of someone.

  Spinkley had said he was working for Baron Dartmouth, but who was that? Rob had never heard of him, had no inkling why such a powerful man should even have heard of Rob, let alone want him dead. He must have misheard.

  He was wondering about it when he heard a sound on the other side of the room. It was someone standing, then a thump and a curse. Unused to the ship’s low decks, the man must have hit his head.

  That surprised Rob. All the men who had been pressed were experienced seamen. Like Rob, they ducked instinctively the moment they descended the ladder.

  It must be the new arrival, Rob decided. A stringy man named Lendal, with a pockmarked face, who had arrived before dusk. All evening, he had sat listening to the chatter in the hold, saying nothing. He wore his hat low, even in the close confines of the hold. Beneath the brim, Rob had had the uncomfortable feeling that the man’s eyes were watching him.

  Now Lendal was coming across the room, carefully picking his way between the sleeping men. There was hardly space to move: several complained angrily in their sleep as his foot caught them.

  He was coming towards Rob.

  A beam of dawn light reflected off the river and through the gunport. It gleamed on a thin sliver of sharp steel in Lendal’s hand.

  He had a knife.

  Rob was unarmed. He had nothing but the clothes he had been wearing when the press gang took him. He forced himself to remain still, keeping his eyelids almost shut lest any glimmer in his eyes show he was awake. Under his blanket, he tensed his muscles to spring. He could see Lendal edging closer, a shadow in the darkness. Rob made himself wait. Surprise was his only weapon. He had to make it count.

  Lendal stepped over Angus. He squatted beside Rob. Rob wondered what Lendal planned to do. He could only afford one stroke. If he made any mistake, Rob’s screams would wake the others and Lendal would be caught in the act of murder. But it would be difficult to kill Rob both quickly and discreetly. Locked in the hold with marines on guard above, he could not escape before the body was found.

  Lendal must have reached the same conclusion. He changed his mind. He slipped the knife into his boot, and unwound a cloth from around his neck. He wrapped the ends in his fists, pulled it tight and leaned towards Rob’s neck.

  He means to strangle me, Rob thought.

  He waited, until he could almost feel the fibres of the cloth tickling his throat.

  With a snap of his arms, he seized Lendal’s wrists and twisted him away. Caught off balance, Lendal tumbled over hard onto Angus, who grunted. He tried to sit up, tangling his limbs with Lendal’s. In the confusion, Rob felt for Lendal’s foot and pulled the knife out of his boot.