Storm Tide Read online

  I must have done that, thought Cal, though he had no memory of it. He wiped the blood from his eyes and stared at the bloody pulp that had once been a soldier.

  Cal began to shake so hard he thought his neck might snap. Bile rose in his throat. It was the first time he had killed a man in cold blood.

  He was unarmed, a voice in his head protested. You murdered him. But another voice answered: you did this for Aidan – and that voice was warm and comforting. His father could say what he liked; it was not Cal’s fault Aidan was dead. He had died for the same reason the soldier had – for the revolution. For freedom. Theo would never understand that.

  Cal glimpsed his face in the soldier’s shiny buckle, and almost shied away in horror. He looked like a terrible, inhuman thing: burned, bloodied and blistered, his mouth open in a snarl. He hardly recognised himself.

  I will not let you die in vain, he promised Aidan. I will not let us lose this war.

  Whatever he had to do, however many Englishmen he had to kill, he would do it. He would make his father understand.

  It was not my fault.

  R

  obert Courtney had never imagined there could be so many ships in the world. But then, he was beginning to realise there was so much about the world he’d failed to imagine. All the way from Gravesend, the Thames was choked with shipping, moored so close together you could almost have crossed the river on their tangled yards. Heavy Indiamen bringing tea from China, sugar from Jamaica and calicoes from India. Ships bringing furs from Canada, spices from the East Indies, ivory from Africa and whale oil from Greenland. At Woolwich, lighters unloaded saltpetre from Bengal. It would be milled with sulphur and charcoal, then loaded onto other ships as black powder to fight the wars that kept all this confusion of commerce in motion across the globe.

  And then there was London.

  Rob saw it first as a smear of dark smoke hanging over the horizon.

  ‘Is that a brush fire?’ he asked Cornish.

  The captain chuckled. ‘That is the smoke of a hundred thousand homes.’

  Rob thought he was joking. Then he saw London and realised Cornish had understated it. The city was as big as a forest: chaotic, dark and filled with noise. It stretched as far as he could see, with buildings that seemed as high as the cape at Nativity Bay.

  ‘How can so many people live in one place?’ he wondered. ‘How do they eat? Where do they hunt?’

  A brightly dressed group of women waved from the shore. They lifted their dresses to show their petticoats and blew kisses. Rob waved shyly back, though he could not understand what they were saying.

  ‘You will find life here very different from what you are used to,’ Cornish said with a smile. But there was concern in his eyes. He had not thought until now how overwhelming the city might be to a boy who had grown up as Rob had.

  The Dunstanburgh Castle moored at Monsoon Dock and began offloading her cargo into the lighters. The crew queued to receive their pay. Their rough sailors’ clothes had been put away, and they wore extraordinary garments: gaudy striped trousers, long-toed shoes, shirts decorated with tassels, fringes, brass and silver buttons and every kind of ornament.

  ‘Is that the fashion in London?’ Rob wondered.

  All he had to wear was one clean shirt and a pair of breeches he had kept safe at the bottom of his sea chest.

  One of his messmates beckoned him over. ‘Come ashore with us, Rob. We will show you all the finest sights of London town.’

  He said it kindly – Rob was popular with the crew – but the roars of laughter from his companions left Cornish in little doubt what they had in mind.

  ‘The sight of a fine whore’s arse, you mean,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Rob is coming with me,’ Cornish announced, giving the boy no say in the matter. ‘We will dine together tonight.’ He saw the disappointment on the boy’s face. ‘There will be time enough tomorrow to see the town.’

  The moment they stepped ashore, the noise and the smell increased tenfold. The only thing Rob could compare it to was standing in the middle of a herd of stampeding elephants, thundering and braying.

  ‘Wait here,’ Cornish told him. ‘I need five minutes with the customs inspector. I have a bottle of brandy to deliver.’

  Rob could barely stand still. The energy of the city elated him. He wanted to run, to see every street and every building and every secret the city had to give up. He stood on the quay, taking in the sights with eyes as wide as a newborn calf. If he ever had doubts about his decision to leave Nativity Bay, he had none now.

  ‘Thief!’ cried a voice, its urgency cutting through the hubbub. ‘Stop that thief!’

  Rob’s attention snapped back to the wharf in front of him. A tall, gaunt man in ragged shirt and trousers was running at surprising speed, clutching a leather bag that looked as if it was worth more than all his clothes put together. A young man in a plum-coloured coat and striped yellow breeches was chasing after him, though the press of the crowd held him back.

  Rob read the situation in an instant. He stepped forwards smartly so that the ragged man charged into him. The man was almost knocked off his feet by the force of the impact, but Rob stood firm. He put his hands on the leather bag.

  ‘I do not think that belongs to you,’ he said.

  The man lifted his head, surprise hardening to fury in his eyes. He let go of the bag.

  ‘Don’t belong to you neither.’

  The bustle on the wharf ceased. A circle had formed around Rob, watching the confrontation unfold. Suddenly the onlookers drew back with gasps. A knife had appeared in the thief’s hand.

  Rob was unarmed. Yet despite the blood pumping hard in his veins, he felt unnaturally calm. He looked the man in the face.

  ‘If you go now, it will be easier on you.’

  With a cry of anger, the man lunged at him with the knife. Rob had never fought an armed man before, but he had a Courtney’s instincts. As the man started to move, Rob turned his body sideways, swaying out of the way. The knife stabbed the space where his stomach had been a split second earlier. Rob did not bother with the knife. He was inside the man’s guard. He brought a knee up into the man’s groin, and as he doubled over Rob swung a heavy punch into his face.

  The man dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Rob put his foot on the blade so his opponent could not reach for it. He waited for the man to come at him again.

  But the thief had had enough. Scrambling to his feet, he pushed through the watching crowd and made his escape.

  ‘That was neatly done,’ a voice complimented Rob.

  The man in the plum-coloured coat had arrived. Close to, Rob could see he was not much older than Rob himself. He had a handsome face, with sharp cheekbones and tousled hair tied back with a velvet bow. His lazy, almond-shaped eyes darted about with almost feline precision.

  ‘Hugo Lyall,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Robert Courtney.’

  Rob was still clutching Hugo’s leather bag in his hand. Hugo reached out and took it.

  ‘I owe you a debt.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  Now that the fight was over, the heat had drained from Rob’s veins. He felt slightly dizzy.

  Hugo noticed it. ‘You are trembling.’

  ‘It is just the excitement. I have never fought a man before.’

  ‘Never?’ Hugo’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You gave a good account of yourself for an amateur. I have seen prizefighters who would have been proud of the blow you gave him.’

  Rob grinned at the compliment. ‘I once had to fight off a shark. It is not so different.’

  Hugo laughed. ‘Now I am certain you are pulling my leg.’

  Rob pulled open the collar of his shirt and showed him the shark’s tooth on the cord around it.

  ‘I kept a souvenir.’

  Hugo had stopped laughing. He stared at Rob with intense curiosity.

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Africa.’

  ‘Ah. Blackbirding on the Guinea coast?’

  Rob smiled, not sure what he meant. ‘I grew up there.’

  ‘Are you Dutch?’

  Rob’s accent was hard to place.

  ‘British.’

  Hugo squinted. ‘But no Englishman grows up in Africa.’

  Rob wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I did.’

  There was a pause. Rob had the feeling they were talking at cross purposes, somehow, but he did not know what to say. Hugo broke the impasse.

  ‘I am forgetting my manners. You saved me a considerable sum of money, at great personal risk. Let me at least buy you something to drink.’

  Rob hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder towards the customs house.

  ‘I should wait for Captain Cornish.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Hugo had a confident way of speaking which made every objection seem not just trivial, but mean-spirited. ‘He will find you.’ He grabbed Rob’s hand and tugged him forwards. ‘And I have some friends who would like to meet you.’

  Rob couldn’t resist. And he could certainly use a drink.

  ‘I would like that.’

  Hugo guided him to a tavern a little way from the dock. The air was thick with pipe smoke and laughter, every corner crammed with men sipping drinks, gambling and arguing. Half a dozen young men, Rob’s age or a little older, sat squeezed together on benches. They must have been there for some time because they had empty glasses and several empty wine bottles. They all had a common look about them – not so much as a family, but like a certain breed of dog. Tousled hair tied back in bows, cotton shirts with lace cuffs, upturned chins and half-closed eyes which seemed to watch the world from a superior angle.

  ‘This is Rob,’ said Hugo. ‘He saved me from being robbed.’ He laughed at his
inadvertent pun.

  ‘By a tart you tried to bilk?’ jeered his friends. Hugo ignored them.

  ‘Rob comes from Africa.’

  ‘Did you ride elephants?’ asked one.

  ‘Or lions?’ said another.

  ‘I’ve shot elephants,’ said Rob.

  ‘And fought sharks,’ added Hugo proudly, as if he was in some way responsible for it.

  They studied him with greater interest.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said one. ‘I do believe he means it.’

  ‘Are you a gentleman?’ enquired one of Hugo’s friends.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said another. ‘They do not have gentlemen in Africa.’

  ‘I say he is nothing but a common sailor. Look at the tattoo.’

  Rob tugged his sleeve down to cover his tattoo. He was starting to feel like an exotic beast displayed in a cage. And he was beginning to worry about how Cornish would find him.

  ‘I must go,’ Rob said.

  There was much braying and protesting.

  ‘Stay for a drink,’ they said. ‘Tell us stories of Africa.’

  Rob edged away. Hugo stood and accompanied him the way they had come.

  ‘I apologise if my friends seem uncouth,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m sure it means nothing.’

  ‘It means they’re bloody drunk.’ He looked Rob in the eye. He had clear, open eyes that brimmed with good humour and fun; Rob found himself instantly warming to him. ‘You really come from Africa,’ he said again, half disbelieving.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I have always dreamed of exploring the world. Where are you living now?’

  ‘At present I am staying aboard ship.’

  Hugo took an enamelled case from his coat, snapped it open and pulled out a small card embossed with his name and address.

  ‘I stay at number 22 Wimpole Street. Call on me, if you can. I would like to hear more tales of your adventures in Africa, without so many interruptions.’

  He handed Rob the card. Then, with a raffish grin, he disappeared back to his friends.

  Rob found Cornish on the quay, searching anxiously through the crowd.

  ‘I told you to stay where you were,’ the captain scolded him. His concern at losing Rob now poured out as anger. ‘You must be careful in London.’

  Rob thought of his fight with the thief. With the safety of hindsight, it seemed like a thrilling encounter, the sort of thing his ancestors would have done. He decided Cornish would not appreciate the story.

  ‘I made a friend,’ was all he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hugo Lyall.’ Rob showed him the card, then tucked it in his waistband. ‘He seemed very nice.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Cornish warned. ‘Not everyone in this city is what they seem.’

  But Rob didn’t listen.

  C

  ornish worried for Rob. But he also worried about unloading his cargo quickly enough to beat the other merchants, getting the best price for his goods, paying the customs agents the bribes they would inevitably expect, repairing his ship after the long voyage, meeting his creditors and seeing his wife. Next morning, when Rob asked permission to go ashore, Cornish barely looked up from the thick ledger his head was buried in.

  ‘Make sure you are back by sundown,’ was all he said.

  Rob hardly knew where to begin exploring London. After half an hour, his eyes hurt from staring and his head throbbed trying to take in so much. His senses were assaulted by noise, smell, movement, bustle and the most extraordinary array of humankind, as if all the most exotic beasts of the wilderness had come together at once, demanding attention. It was never-ending, a mass of humanity zigzagging and interacting as if it was performing an ancient ritual dance, the purpose of which Rob had no clue.

  He could hardly move without a woman or a boy offering to sell him a pie or a pastry. He bought three, using some of the coins Cornish had given him for his wages. He had never spent money before. At home, if you wanted something you had to make it yourself. It was intoxicating to be able to buy things so easily, and there was so much choice. All the riches he had ever imagined the world to possess seemed to be in this one place – and people wanted him to claim a part of it, were thrusting their wares at him with a strange desperation. He was beginning to feel the attraction of plenty, of excess.

  In Africa, Rob had been used to working under a hot sun, but here the crowds and the pressing buildings made the heat sweaty and draining. He bought a pint of ale to refresh himself, but that only gave him a headache. He became dizzy. He was certain everyone was staring at him, laughing at him as an ignorant newcomer.

  He wandered aimlessly, until he was disorientated. He had never been lost in his life before. However far he wandered from Fort Auspice, he could always find a game trail or a watercourse to guide him home. Here, the high buildings hid the sun and boxed him in. Whichever way he wanted to go, it always seemed to be a dead end. He thought if he could only reach the river, he could follow it back to the docks. But he could not find it. How could such a vast body of water simply disappear?

  He had almost begun to despair when he noticed a sign: Wimpole Street. He took Hugo Lyall’s card, sweaty and smudged, from his pocket and read the address: 22 Wimpole Street. Much of the street was still vacant, or under construction, but there were a number of fine imposing mansions already complete. Number 22 seemed to be the finest of them all – a gleaming white stucco façade, six storeys tall, with pillars framing a large black door.

  A liveried servant answered Rob’s knock. To Rob’s surprise, the man’s skin was as black as that of the natives in Nativity Bay.

  ‘Sawubona,’ Rob said automatically, greeting him in the language he’d used with the servants at home.

  The man scowled as if Rob had offered the most grievous insult. He looked down his nose at Rob.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Does Hugo Lyall live here?’

  The servant looked Rob up and down. He took in the tar under his fingernails, the callouses on his hands and sunburn on his neck.

  ‘Mr Lyall is not at home to visitors.’

  Rob fished out the card. ‘He told me to call on him.’

  ‘He is not at home,’ the servant repeated, louder and slower, as if speaking to a stupid child. And then, without waiting for a reply, he shut the door in Rob’s face.

  Rob stared at the closed door, confused and humiliated. Then, because he couldn’t stand on the doorstep all day, he turned to go.

  ‘Robert Courtney.’ A familiar voice hailed him.

  It was Hugo, dressed in a sea-green coat with a purple lining, stepping down from a carriage that must have cost more than the Dunstanburgh Castle’s entire cargo. His face broadened into a delighted, surprised smile when he saw Rob.

  ‘Not run back to Africa yet?’

  ‘I was lost,’ Rob confessed. ‘I was trying to find my way back to Monsoon Dock.’

  ‘Then you are lost indeed.’

  ‘If you could point me the right way . . .’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘You look half dead. Come in and have a drink first.’

  Rob demurred; Hugo insisted. ‘I never had the chance to buy you the drink I promised yesterday.’

  Rob was certainly thirsty. And after the hard anonymity of London, it was a relief to find someone who seemed genuinely glad to see him. He followed his friend past the scowling doorman and through a marble-floored hallway, up a flight of stairs to an opulent sitting room.

  They lounged on silk sofas, while more black servants brought wine in silver coolers. Hugo raised his glass.

  ‘Your good health.’

  The chilled wine slipped easily down Rob’s throat, as refreshing as spring water.

  He gestured to the magnificent room. Everything about it seemed fit for a palace: gilt-framed mirrors and paintings, thick flock wallpaper on the walls, a harpsichord.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  ‘For the moment,’ said Hugo. ‘My father is away visiting his estates in the West Indies. He will not be back for some months.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She died when I was young.’

  ‘So did mine.’

  Their eyes met; a spark of kinship passed between them.

  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Rob. ‘I suppose it cannot have been easy.’