Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

The two crew members started forward and I snatched up a stone statuette that I swung like a short club. The threat checked them. I noted that Bannister made no move; he just gaped at the sudden violence which, with splintering speed, suddenly became more sickening as Terry swung his body, kicked with his right foot, and I heard a crunch as Mulder’s nose was broken. The South African was finished, but our regiment never believed in half measures, and Terry felled the big man with a blow to his sternum. Mulder collapsed in breathless pain and Terry turned on the two crew men.

“Come on, you fuckers.” He was moving towards them, beckoning them to him, but they, seeing Mulder’s agony, hung back. Bannister was white-faced and motionless.

“Come on!” That was me, shouting at Terry. I did not want to use his name, nor his rank, because by identifying him I could risk him having to face disciplinary proceedings. He had appeared like a small, very nasty force, and he had utterly cowed the room with his economical and swift violence. Now it was time to get him out before his face became memorable. “Come on!” I discarded my unused club. Mulder was writhing and gasping, his face bloodied, while Terry and I were doing the classic thing: shoot and scoot. Hit the bastards, then run like hell before they can muster reinforcements.

“Phone the police!” Bannister shouted.

Terry and I were already in the rainswept darkness. I was limping as fast as I could and Terry was staying with me, covering my retreat.

“Did I do the right thing, boss?”

“God, yes.” Why hadn’t Bannister believed me? God damn it, but he was a fool! And Angela! The look she had given me before she stalked from the room had been one of pure reproach. More than that, a look of derisive hatred because she believed I had betrayed both her and Bannister.

I slipped on the grass, thought for a second that my damned leg was about to fold up on me, but it had only been a damp patch of lawn that had made me lurch. The sudden movement wrenched pain in my back, but the leg was still strong. I looked to see if anyone was following us, but Terry had plainly terrified them. Terry himself, high on the adrenalin of a successful fight, chuckled. “Orders, boss?”

“We get the fuck out of here. On Sycorax . You do the springs, then cast off the bow warp. Leave the stern till last.” Terry had sailed with me before and knew what he was doing.

But did Sycorax know? She had been out of commission for over six months, she was untested, and I had to take her to sea in a fretting wind against a flood tide. I dragged the mainsail cover back, lifted the boom, and fumbled with the topping lift. I saw Angela appear on the balcony of Bannister’s bedroom. She was staring down at me.

“Micky Harding!” I shouted at her. “Phone Inspector Abbott!” She turned away. “Springs and warp off!” Terry shouted at me.

“Standing by!”

The tide was swinging Sycorax ’s bows off the wall. She was moving in the water at last.

“Let’s go!” The stern warp splashed off the wharf and Sycorax was unleashed. “Peak halliard, Terry!”

I did not trust the engine to start quickly, if at all. We were drifting on the tide and I needed a sail to give me some power. “Haul her up!”

I heard the rattle of the halliard and the flap of the big sail. It rose stiffly, stretching to the night wind, and there was a sudden creak as the starboard shrouds took the mast’s weight and I felt a sudden surge of joy. It was not how I had imagined it, not in the least how I had dreamed of it, but Sycorax and I were going to sea.

“Did you kill that big guy?” I asked Terry.

“Christ, no!” He was scornful. “Just brought some tears to his fucking eyes. Have you got a light down here?”

“Only an oil-lamp.”

He swore again. He had taken the companionway off to reveal the engine and was now trying to swing it into life. “Why can’t you get a decent fucking motor?”

“Can’t afford it.” I pegged the tiller. “Throw up the yellow sail bag, Terry.”

He struck a match, found the sail bag, and heaved it into the cockpit. I struggled forward with the heavy load. I hanked on the jib’s head, ran its tack along the bowsprit with the traveller, then hoisted away. I tied the sheets on to the sail and threw them back towards the cockpit. I heard Terry swear at the motor again and I told him to abandon it and hoist the mizzen. I could see figures standing on Bannister’s terrace. Would the police be waiting at the river’s mouth? I dragged the staysail from its bag and fumbled with its shackle. Terry had to unpeg the tiller and adjust our course as I pulled the sail up. My back was hurting.

I rove the foresails’ sheets through their fairleads, hauled the port sheets tight, and took over the tiller. We had no running lights, no compass, nothing but the boat, the sails and a pig of an engine that wouldn’t start. Terry had gone below again, had lit the chart table’s oil-lamp, and now swung the engine’s handle. Nothing.

The wind was made tricky by the western hills. At moments it seemed to die completely, then it would back suddenly to gust in a wet squall. Sycorax was in confusion. She had not been ready for sea, but to sea she was going. I heard the blessed sound of water running by her hull. We were clearing Sansom’s Point which at last hid the lights of Bannister’s house from us.

“Topsail, Terry. Remember how to do it?”

“Yes, boss.”

We now had jib, staysail, main, top and mizzen, and Sycorax was leaning to the wind, hissing the water, taking us fast down the river’s buoyed channel. Fast, though, was a relative term. We were moving through the water, but the tide was moving against us. Our motion felt fast enough, but from the bank we would be creeping at less than walking pace. I was also uncomfortably aware that Wildtrack II ’s sharp bows might appear at any moment.

Terry, the topsail hoisted, came back to the cockpit. “What happened, boss?”

“Two rich men are having a row. Both tried to involve me. Bannister thought I’d joined the other side. Now he wants Sycorax .” Terry took that lot on board, then squatted below the coaming to light a cigarette. “I thought Bannister was a decent bloke. He seems nice on the telly. Sally always watches his programme.”

“He’s a bloody wally,” I said savagely, “and he wants to take Sycorax .”

“Sod him, then.” Terry complacently accepted my judgement.

“Exactly.” But I was thinking of that look of mingled remorse and hatred which Angela had shot at me. She thought I was the enemy, that I had betrayed her. God damn it, I thought, but my emotions had become inextricably tangled with her. “Bloody women,” I said.

“Bloody engine.” Terry had gone back to the struggle, swung the handle again, and by some miracle the old engine banged into protesting life. “Give it some throttle, boss!” I gave it some throttle, it threatened to die, then the cylinders settled into a proper, comforting rhythm and I slammed it into gear and Sycorax thrust forward against the tide.

“Where are we going?” Terry asked.

“I don’t have a clue.” I’d been trying to answer that myself. I needed to hide Sycorax from Bannister’s bailiffs. The only refuge I could think of was George Cullen’s boatyard on the Hamoaze. “Plymouth,” I suggested. “When do you have to be in barracks?”

“Fourteen hundred. Tomorrow.”

“It’ll be tight. You want me to drop you off at the town quay?” He glanced behind. “Will those buggers chase you?”

“They might.”

“I’ll stay.”

They followed us. The first I saw of our pursuers was a gleam of reflected lamplight from Wildtrack II ’s polished bows. We were already abaft the town quay and the powerboat was a mile behind.