Doctor Who: The Highlanders (11 page)

‘Oh no,’ Polly leaned over and tried to wake the Doctor.

She looked at Kirsty who was also examining the Doctor.

‘Och, he’s fast asleep,’ said Kirsty. The two girls looked at each other over the sleeping Doctor.

‘I’m scared to fall asleep,’ said Kirsty, ‘in case I dinna wake up in time.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Polly, ‘the Doctor will wake us up in an hour. He’s like that. Must have an inbuilt alarm clock.’ The two girls snuggled down in the hay beside the sleeping Doctor.

13

Across the chill, mist-shrouded waters of the firth a bell was tolling midnight. Grey, wrapped up in his cloak, and Perkins were being rowed across to the brig. As Grey clambered on deck, followed by Perkins clutching a battered portfolio, Trask leaned down and helped them aboard.

‘Mr Trask,’ said Grey.

‘Aye,’ said Trask.

‘Is everything in readiness?’

‘It is.’

‘If anyone tries the same trick,’ said Grey, ‘shoot him down immediately, Captain, do you understand?’

‘I’ll quarter him on the spot, don’t worry about that,’

said Trask.

‘I’ve had Perkins copy out three new contracts, just to make sure. We’ll need two of them signed and sealed tonight.’

Trask’s face set, his brows coming down, his face jutting out, so that Perkins, almost involuntarily, moved a pace backwards. ‘Every man jack of them will sign. If not with ink, then with blood,’ said Trask. ‘’Tis all one to me.’

Grey, making his way along towards the companionway down to the hold, turned. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re not dealing with slaves, man. These Highlanders have high courage and resolution. If you flog but one of them they’ll stand together and refuse to sign a thing. You’ll undo all I’ve worked for. When they’re safely sold in Barbados, they can be whipped to death for all I care – until then use a light fist, or you’ll answer to me.’

Unused to being taken to task in this way – and on his own quarterdeck – Trask bristled for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘And the London deserter, what am I to do with him?’

‘Proceed with the ducking,’ Grey rejoined. ‘He will be a useful example to the rest. Perkins, go below and commence signing the contracts.’

Perkins nodded and hurried away to the companionway leading below.

Grey turned back to Trask. ‘Bring the deserter on deck.’

Meanwhile in the barn, Polly and Kirsty were sitting waiting for the Doctor. Both girls were very tired and yawning. In front of them on Kirsty’s plaid were a broken sword, a pitchfork, and a couple of rusty kitchen knives.

Kirsty yawned. ‘We could have stayed asleep for all the good we’ve done,’ she said.

‘You’re right,’ Polly groaned. ‘It’s all right for the Doctor. Give him an hour and he packs a night’s sleep in.

He’s fresh again.’ She looked down at the meagre collection of weapons. ‘We didn’t do very well, did we?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘They wouldna take me seriously.’

Polly nodded. ‘Nor me. I hope the Doctor’s had better luck than this.’

There was a soft knock at the barn door. The girls rushed over. ‘Who’s there?’ called Polly.

‘Me,’ the Doctor’s voice came softly through a crack in the door. They pulled it open, and the Doctor entered trundling a small hand barrow covered with a piece of tarpaulin. They closed the door behind them and turned back.

‘What have you got there, Doctor?’ asked Polly excitedly. ‘Let’s see?’

The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, let’s see what you’ve got, first.’

Polly sighed. ‘Don’t tease us,’ she said. ‘Look.’ She led him over and the two girls showed him their meagre supply of weapons.

The Doctor nodded encouragingly. ‘Well, it’s a start.’

He went back to the barrow and whipped off the tarpaulin with the air of a conjurer performing a trick. The barrow was loaded to the brim with swords, muskets, dirks, and pistols.

Kirsty gave a small scream. ‘Whee!’ she said. ‘You must’ve robbed the Duke’s arsenal.’

The Doctor shrugged modestly. ‘Something like that,’

he said.

‘That’s super, Doctor,’ said Polly.

Kirsty leaned over to pick up a heavily ornamented pistol. ‘Here’s a bonnie one,’ she said.

The Doctor looked at her hand holding the pistol and then leaned over and grabbed her wrist. ‘One moment,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ said Kirsty, scared.

‘Your ring.’

Kirsty tried to cover it.

‘Show me.’

‘Oh that,’ Polly said, ‘it’s her father’s. She won’t let you touch it. Or even mention it.’

But the Doctor firmly took Kirsty’s hand and she reluctantly let him see the ring.

‘I see why,’ he said, looking her in the eye.

‘What’s the secret?’ said Polly.

‘It’s not her father’s ring,’ said the Doctor.

‘You lie.’

‘Then why has it got the Stuart seal on it?’ said the Doctor.

‘My father bade me not to tell where he got it.’

‘Until the right time,’ countered the Doctor, ‘and that time has now arrived, Kirsty.’

There was a moment’s hesitation. The girl looked down at the ring, obviously struggling with her feelings, and then said, ‘The Prince gave it to my father off his own finger in the heat of battle.’ She raised her head proudly.

‘He saved the Prince’s life, ye ken.’

‘Then it is right and proper that it should now save his life.’ He held out his hand. ‘May I have it, please?’

Kirsty looked at him for a moment and then, showing her newfound trust in this strange man who had come from... where?... Somewhere beyond Kirsty’s limited experience, she slowly pulled the ring off her finger and gave it to him.

The Doctor studied it carefully. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I wonder.’ And then, snapping his fingers, he said, ‘Of course, bait!’

‘Pardon, Doctor?’ said Polly.

The Doctor winked at her. ‘Bait. For a very greedy man.’ He tried the ring on his finger, and then held his hand up, admiring it. He turned to the girls. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we have to think about how to get this lot’ – he indicated the barrow of weapons – ‘to the quayside undetected.’

Ben, his arms and legs bound, was standing on deck as a sailor adjusted a rope around his waist. The rope was suspended from one of the booms, which protruded over the side of the ship. At a signal from Trask, Ben was hauled six foot in the air and then, as the sailors worked the pulleys, the boom swung out over the dark waters of the firth. Trask looked over at Grey, who nodded, and at Trask’s signal, the sailors released the rope. Ben plummeted down with a splash into the dark, cold waters.

The watching men waited for the signal from Trask to bring the young sailor back to the surface, but Trask, his arm upraised, waited. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Grey, who saw the loss of the several hundred pounds that Ben would fetch in the labour markets of the West Indies, nodded impatiently to Trask, and Trask dropped his hand.

The men hauled, and then fell over backwards on the deck, as the rope snaked up–with no Ben on the end!

‘What on earth!’ Grey stepped forward and stared at the water, but there was no sign of the young Cockney. They waited for the tell-tale bubbles, but again nothing broke the surface.

Finally Trask shrugged his shoulders. ‘Good riddance,’

he said. ‘It’ll be a warning to the rest.’

Grey shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perkins should have finished getting the contracts signed,’ he said. He turned away, heading for the companionway to the hold, followed by Trask.

If their eyes could have penetrated the dark, murky sea water, they would have seen Ben swimming strongly towards the shore. He had managed to get out of his bonds by an old trick, often practised by sailors in the Royal Navy. Now, his lungs bursting, he came up for air behind a moored rowing boat, a safe distance away from the brig.

When his tortured lungs had finally had their fill of air, he turned and, despite the chilling cold, set out with a long, steady overarm stroke for the shore.

Luckily Ben was a very strong swimmer, and during the icy half-mile stretch was able to vary his stroke: first the crawl, then the breast stroke, the back stroke to give him a much-needed respite, and then a stroke his father had taught him, that was rarely used or taught at the London baths where Ben had learned his swimming – the side stroke.

Finally, chilled almost to the marrow, Ben grasped the rungs of a ladder protruding from the closest Inverness wharf to the brig, and hauled himself up, flopping on the wooden boards like a stranded whale gasping for breath, his eyes closed. Something moved close to his face. He opened his eyes and saw before him the white gaiters of an English sentry, and the butt of a musket.

Ben shook his head wearily. ‘Oh no, not after all that! Okay,’ he said. He rolled over on his back. ‘I give up.’

A familiar voice said, ‘You give up awfully easily for an intrepid British tar!’

‘What?!’ Ben, fatigue forgotten, sat up abruptly and stared at the sentry. Under the tall grenadier’s hat there was a familiar face. ‘Doctor!’ he called.

‘Well, of course,’ said the Doctor, ‘who else would be walking around a jetty at one in the morning, dressed as an English sentry?’

Ben shivered and got to his feet. ‘You’ve got a point there. But why?’

‘Why not,’ said the Doctor, ‘I like it here. And besides, it keeps the other soldiers away.’

Ben nodded as the Doctor took his heavy greatcoat off and wrapped it around the young soldier’s shoulders. ‘Of course. Have you got somewhere warm to go to after guard duty? I’m frozen,’ he said.

The Doctor nodded. ‘Just the place. I think we can supply some warm clothes and food to go with them.’

Ben closed his eyes in ecstasy. ‘Food,’ he said, ‘my stomach’s forgotten the meaning of that word.’

The Doctor said, ‘Just let me return this musket to the boat and I’ll be right with you.’

Ben shook his head, puzzled. ‘The boat?’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s loaded with a few wee gifties for our friends aboard the
Annabelle
.’ As Ben watched, the Doctor walked over and, leaning down, peeled back the tarpaulin from a rowing boat tied alongside the wharf.

Inside, the moonlight caught the sharp glint of the swords and bayonets.

Where is the Prince?

Inside the cabin of the brig, a small, rather cramped room with an overhead skylight, a long table firmly screwed down to the deck and two long benches likewise fastened, Grey, Perkins and Trask were examining the signed indentures which were spread out on the table. Trask, at the far end of the table, was noisily gurgling down the remnants of a bottle of wine.

‘There, sir,’ said Perkins, ‘duly signed and attested; it just wants your signature.’

Grey nodded a little grimly. ‘Not before time,’ he said.

He dipped a quill pen in the ink pot that Perkins brought out of his invariable leather portfolio, and started signing the documents.

Trask rose to his feet a little unsteadily, turned, opened a cupboard set in the side wall, and from a well-filled wine rack carefully selected another bottle of red Burgundy. He turned back and waved it in front of Grey. ‘A little wine for your cold heart, lawyer?’

Grey looked up, an expression of distaste on his long face. ‘I never mix strong liquors and business. I would advise you to do the same, Mr Trask. You sail with the morning tide, if you remember.’

Trask sat down again and poured himself some wine.

‘Happen it’s too foggy to sail,’ he said expansively. ‘What then?’

Grey leaned forward, his eyes piercing. ‘You sail, Mr Trask,’ he said, ‘fog or no fog.’

‘Aye, and crash’ – he slapped the table – ‘this old girl’s timbers on Chanonry Point.’

Grey leaned back, his tone heavy with sarcasm. ‘I took you for a seaman.’

Trask gave him a lopsided smile, revealing a row of blackened, broken teeth. ‘Why that I am, good sir. Trask will get your cargo of little beauties to Barbados, never fear.’ Then, suddenly irritated by the lawyer’s contemptuous manner, he pointed a stubby finger across the table. ‘That’s what really counts, lawyer, not those dried up bits of parchment of yours.’

‘Without these bits of parchment,’ said Grey, ‘we’d all be sailing afoul of the King’s law.’

‘Law? Huh,’ Trask gave a hoarse laugh. ‘What does the law, or anyone, care for these Highland cattle we carry?’

Grey raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘But to take these cattle fresh to the slave plantations – before their health has been sapped by His Majesty’s prisons – that takes skill and preparation.’

‘And what would happen to you if this trade were to be discovered by the Duke?’ Trask’s dark face had grown sly, his eyes glinting across the table under their bushy black brows.

Grey paused, felt in his pockets for his snuff box, and before answering opened it, placed a little on his thumb and took a delicate sniff. ‘It will never happen, Trask.

There are only three of us privy to the secret. I can answer for myself and for Perkins, eh?’ He turned to Perkins quickly.

Perkins nodded hastily. ‘Oh yes, yes sir, indeed you may answer for me.’

Then Grey turned back. ‘You, Captain, must answer for yourself.’

Again Trask saw that he had pushed this calm, unsmiling man opposite too far. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to bluff his way out of the situation. ‘All but in jest. You know me, Solicitor, I’m your man.’

Grey nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said. He took another pinch of snuff. ‘And you’ll remain so, Mr Trask.’

Inside the barn, the four fugitives had just finished a meal of stew, bread, tea and cold beef.

Ben was dressed, a little self-consciously, in knee breeches, ruffled shirt, waistcoat, and the long embroidered jacket of the period.

‘Cor,’ he said, ‘that’s better. Never thought I’d live to see a meal like that again.’

Polly turned to him, a little puzzled. ‘How did you manage to get loose?’ she asked. ‘Underwater, too?’

Ben inflated his chest a little. He always enjoyed showing off for Polly; the opportunity for it came all too rarely. ‘The old Houdini trick, duchess. You flex your muscles when they tie you up.’ He showed them by wrapping a piece of rope around his biceps. ‘Then, when you’re ready, you let your muscles relax, like this.’ Ben exhaled the air from his chest and let his muscles relax, and the rope fell off. ‘See? You’re half the size you were before. Get it?’