The Gallant (32 page)

There were half a dozen ships, of varying sizes, within his range of vision, and he studied them carefully, while keeping track of the three boatloads of armed soldiers that were now plying between them. The search was well coordinated, the boats maintaining contact by means of signal lamps, and on the customs wharf two officers were pacing up and down, directing the boats and receiving their signals.

After a while, one of the officers crossed to what Michael realized was a hotel, to return to his post a little later,

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nied by two civilians in evening dress. He was too far away to be able to see their faces, but one was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a fair beard, his companion slight and dark. Both were watching the boats” progress with even more intensity than himself, and when one boat-tied up to the lee chains of a small sealer-started to flash a lengthy signal to the shore, their excitement became evident. Minutes afterward, a woman, muffled in a dark cloak against the misty chill emanating from the river, came running from the hotel to join them, the bearded man solicitously putting his arm about her as they waited together.

Then the boat put off from the sealer’s side, and when it emerged from the shadow the ship had cast and into the moonlight, Michael saw, with a quickening of his pulses, that the soldiers’ search had been successful. Huddled in the sternsheets, their arms pinioned, were three dark figures, and even at that distance it was not hard to recognize them.

Haines-whatever had been his reason for coming to Hobart-had made a fatal error, and now all three men would pay for it with their lives, for they would certainly not be allowed to escape again.

Illogically, for a brief moment, Michael found it in his heart to feel compassion for them, but then, remembering what they had so nearly done to little Prudence Meldrum and her family, the impulse faded. They were foul, insensitive brutes, and hanging was no more than they deserved, he told himself, and shifted his position in order to gain a better view of the customs wharf and the reception the captives were accorded.

The three civilians moved across to the head of the landing steps; one of the officers barked a brusque order, and as Haines and his two companions came ashore, they were hustled into line, their guards grouped about them to cut off any attempt they might make to break away. The civilians’ inspection was cursory; Michael saw all three heads shake, almost in unison, and they turned away, the woman seemingly distressed, for he saw her hide her face with her hands and then, picking up her skirts, run back to the hotel as if all the fiends of hell were at her heels.

Absurdly, just for an instant, she

reminded him of his sister Kitty, who had been wont to run in that same swift, abandoned fashion when anything hurt or frightened her. But it was

absurd, he chided himself-Kitty was twelve thousand miles away, in the lovely homeland, the mere thought of which had reduced the big Irish seaman to maudlin tears a little while, ago.

Haines and the others had been apprehended; he was no longer in danger from them, and now it behooved him to find a ship-any ship-that would take him away from Hobart, God willing, forever.

Michael again moved cautiously, inching to the front of the warehouse to enable him to study the vessels crowding the anchorage. The soldiers’ boats had been recalled, he realized; the other two were on their way back to the customs wharf, their search having evidently been called off. It would be best to wait until all three parties and the officers withdrew, and then … His gaze went to a small, white-painted brig riding at anchor some sixty or seventy yards from where he stood. She had earlier been boarded and searched, and since the search had been abortive, she was probably unlikely to merit the attention of the military again. And he could swim out to her; that was no problem, so long as the watch on her deck did not see him and he could contrive to scramble aboard her unobserved. He measured the distance with his eye; in darkness, distances were deceptive, and she might be farther out than he had judged. It might be wise to wait, however, until the excitement occasioned by the search and the fugitives’

capture died down, and then try to board her. If-Michael tensed, cursing under his breath, as the sound of ribald laughter and a chorus of catcalls reached his ears, interspersed with approaching footsteps.

The sound came nearer. Another party of drunken seamen, he thought irritably, on their way to rejoin their ship-and they were coming toward the warehouse. He looked about him for a hiding place and found it behind some bales, piled against the wall of the warehouse.

There were about a dozen men in the party, and they were almost all cheerfully inebriated, the exceptions being a big, tough-looking fellow with a dark beard-the ship’s bo’sun, Michael decided-and a younger man, in the pea jacket of a mate. Evidently their vessel was due to sail early the next day, for the bo’sun cursed them roundly for the trouble he had had in find ing

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them, adding the warning that if their behavior were repeated, he would see to it that the

Mercedes

sailed without them.

Michael’s interest increased when the big man strode to the end of the wharf and his waving lantern was answered by one on the deck of the white-painted brig-the one to which he had contemplated swimming-and he saw that her people were lowering a boat, presumably with the object of picking up the absentees. A husky seaman, in a woolen cap and salt-stained ducks, started to complain ill-temperedly to all who were in earshot. His voice was slurred and his indignation such as to make his remarks all but unintelligible, but Michael listened, buoyed by a sudden hope. The fellow, it seemed, did not wish to return to the ship, and he hung back from the others, only a few feet away from Michael’s hiding place.

Apparently the man had formed an attachment to a woman on shore, who had promised him marriage and a job in one of the shipyards if he remained in Hobart.

“Have a heart, Bo’sun!” he pleaded. “Talk to him, for the Lord’s sake, Mr.

Murphy-sure and isn’t it the chance of a lifetime, now? Dere’s dis young woman-a beauty, if ever I seen one, so she is-an’ she willin’ to wed me and-was

“She’s a whore, O’Hara,” the bo’sun told him harshly. “And you are not only drunk-you’re out of your mind! We’re saving you from yourself, lad, and you’ll be grateful when you sober up.”

“I will not!” the man called O’Hara retorted with sullen obstinacy and, as soon as the bo’sun turned his back, mumbled, “Sure an’ I’ll curse de pair o’ ye till me dyin’ day, so I will!”

On impulse, Michael leaned forward and grabbed his arm, drawing him into the space behind the bales and silencing his startled protests with a hand over his mouth.

“Keep quiet,” he warned. “Now-tell me. Do you really want to stay in Hobart? Nod your head if you do.” O’Hara nodded vigorously, and Michael removed his hand. “All right then-bide here till the boat puts off and then run. I’ll take your place.”

O’Hara stared at him owlishly. “You mean it?”

“Aye, I mean it. I’m as anxious to get away from here as you are to stay.”

“You’re a bleedin’ escaped convict,

aren’t you?” The accusation was without malice; O’Hara was grinning.

“I’m ticket-of-leave,” Michael told him.

“And I want comto quit Tasmania. Where’s your brig bound?”

“Geelong. Wid a cargo o’ New Zealand timber.” The grin widened, and O’Hara, swaying a little, extended a big, callused hand. was “Tis a bargain, an” God bless yez!”

Geelong, Victoria, Michael thought, elated, and scarcely able to believe his good fortune … the Mercedes

was bound for Geelong, Victoria! He shook the young Irishman’s hand and then plucked his woolen cap from his head.

“I’ll need this, so that they won’t spot me.

You’ll bide here quietly, will you not?”

“Like a wee small mouse,” O’Hara assured him, with drunken earnestness. “Not a sound shall they hear, I swear it!” He slumped down among the bales, still grinning. was “Tis a happy man you’ve made me.”

Michael crammed the woolen cap onto his own head and, in a fair imitation of a tipsy gait, joined the others as the boat from the

Mercedes

came alongside the jetty. He received a goodnatured cuff from the big bo’sun as the men piled into the boat.

“You should lay off the liquor, O’Hara, you damned young fool!” the bo’sun reproached him, but neither he nor the mate took any further notice of him, and in the darkness the woolen cap proved an effective disguise.

On board the

Mercedes,

the truants from the shore were herded below, with a stern injunction from the young mate to “Sleep it off, you miserable rogues!” Michael stumbled into a vacant bunk in the crew’s quarters and, without undressing, turned his face to the bulkhead and feigned sleep.

A bellow from above of “All hands!” roused him just before dawn the following morning, to find the master on deck and the-brig preparing to weigh anchor. All was orderly confusion in the darkness, with the Mercedes

two mates and the big bo’sun hustling the seamen about their various tasks. To Michael’s relief, the man whose place he had taken, Sean

O’Hara, had not been a prime seaman, and he found himself performing

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ous but comparatively unskilled work, lending his weight to the capstan as the anchor was have in, tailing on to sheets and halyards when sail was set and trimmed, and earning a few curses as he tried to remember lessons he had learned years before as a midshipman and had long since forgotten.

But no one questioned his identity. The curses came mainly from the other seamen, who addressed him as Sean and, attributing his lapses to the previous night’s heavy drinking, impatiently pushed and elbowed him into the positions he was supposed to occupy in the tasks required of him. As yet the sun had not risen, and a swirling mist hung over the anchorage, blotting out men’s faces and obscuring both the land and the towering sails above, now slowly filling as the breeze caught them and the brig got under way.

“Jump to it, Sean!” one of his fellows exhorted him. “Holy God, man, you must’ve had a bloody barrelful on shore last night! What d’ye think you’re doing?”

“Numbskull, you heard the order-man the lee braces! What’s got into you? The bo’sun’ll have your hide if you don’t watch out!” Another man fumed, thrusting past him, bare feet slithering on the wet deck.

It was coming back to him-the familiar routine, the instant obedience to the shouted commands-but he was still too slow, Michael realized, still having to think. As a mid, he had been a foretopman, despising the landsmen and the marines who had formed the afguard, but-

“Ready about! Ease the helm down!” The master’s orders boomed from his speaking trumpet, and there was a concerted rush across the deck, carrying Michael along with it, to bring him up beside the young mate-Murphy, he recalled; yes, that was his name-who had been on the landing stage the previous night.

“Tacks and sheets! Let go to’gallant bowlines! Mainbrace …” The orders followed thick and fast, as the brig came about to settle on the starboard tack. Michael hauled on the lee brace with the other men, putting his back into it and conscious that Murphy was watching him, a faintly puzzled frown creasing his brow.

“Head braces!” the mate snapped, and once again there was a

rush across the canting deck to the weather side. “Of all haul! Look lively, lads! Brace sharp up there!”

It was not until the brig was running before a brisk beam wind that the order came for the men of the watch below to break their fast. -Michael paused to wipe the sweat from his streaming face, and Murphy caught up with him, to grasp him by the shoulder with a quiet “Hold hard.”

He turned, realizing that the woolen cap no longer hid his face and that the early-morning mist had dispersed, putting an end to his deception.

“You’re not Sean O’Hara,” the mate accused.

“No, I’m not, Mr. Murphy.”

“Then who the devil are you?”

Michael hesitated and then answered evasively, “My seaman’s papers are in the name of Thomas Albert Blaney, sir.”

Murphy studied his face with watchful, narrowed eyes. “But that isn’t your real name?” he suggested.

His tone was not unfriendly, but it was wary. “I think I have it. You are one of the fugitives they were hunting last night-the one the military patrol failed to catch. You escaped from Port Arthur?”

It was useless to deny it, Michael knew. Clearly, though, the

Mercedes

would not at this point return to Hobart in order to hand him over to the authorities there. Yet equally clearly, that would be his fate when she made port in Geelong. Her master would have no choice, Michael was certain-even if he were to persist in claiming the identity of Thomas Blaney, whose ticket of leave did not entitle him to quit his employment in Tasmania. He shrugged and inclined his head.

“Yes, that is so,” he admitted.

“Then your name is Wexford-Michael Wexford?

They caught the other three.”

“Yes,” Michael confirmed flatly. “I saw them bring in the other three.”

Murphy continued to study him thoughtfully. “The hunt was particularly for you,” he volunteered.

“We were all given your name, and there were special instructions, to be followed if you were found.”

“Special instructions, sir? In my case?”

“Yes.” Murphy jerked his head in the direction of the after

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companionway. “We can’t talk here.

Come to my cabin. I shall have to report you to Captain Deacon, but-well, I’d like to hear what account you can give of yourself first, Mr. Wexford.”

In the privacy of his cabin, the young mate waved Michael to a seat on the berth and took up their conversation at the point where it had left off on deck.

“The instructions were that, if you were apprehended, you were to be taken to the customs wharf to be identified.

There were military officers there and two civilians-a young couple, people of quality, I was informed, who had authority from the governor, no less. Which seems to put you in a different light from an ordinary escaper, doesn’t it?”