Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“Why don’t you arrest him?”

“You’re the one who got clocked,” Abbott pointed out reasonably,

“not me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to charge him?”

“I told you. I’m not crime. I just volunteered to come and have a chat with you. For old times’ sake.”

“Thank you, Harry,” I said mockingly.

“But if I was you, I wouldn’t bother pressing charges,” Abbott said airily. “Bannister looks after Fanny, he does. He’ll hire him a top lawyer who’ll muddy the waters, and you’ll end up with the court’s sympathy because of the medal, but they’ll still pin a bloody great bill for costs on to you.” He shook his head. “Not worth it, Nick. Forget it.”

“I don’t want to forget it. I’ve got to sue someone if I’m going to find the money to repair Sycorax .”

Abbott jerked his head towards the door. “There’s a whole lot of bloody lowlife out there who’d gladly write you a cheque. The press, Nick. They’ve been trying to see you for days.”

“Keep them out, Harry, for Christ’s sake. And I want to press charges against Mulder.”

Abbott sighed at my stubbornness. “If you insist, Nick. If you insist. I’ll arrange for a bloody lawyer to come and see you.” He went to the door, pausing there. “You know your old man was proud of you, Nick? Really proud.” He waited, and when I made no response, he explained, “The VC.”

“The other two earned it,” I said. “I just disobeyed orders.”

“It’s still a Victoria Cross, Nick. It can change your life, earning a thing like that.”

“I don’t want it to change my life. I just want to get it back.” Abbott frowned. “Get what back?”

“The medal, Harry. Bloody Mulder stole it with everything else.

It was in my bag.”

Abbott flinched as if, at last, he recognized that I’d suffered a misfortune. “I am sorry, Nick.”

“Now do you see why I need to sue the bugger?”

“If it’s any consolation to you, he’ll have the devil’s own job to sell it. Any collector will know it’s stolen, and I can’t think Fanny knows the right fence. He usually only deals with George Cullen, and Georgie wouldn’t touch your medal.”

“Put the word out, will you, Harry?”

“I’ll do that, Nick.” Abbott nodded a farewell.

The next day I swore out a complaint against Francis Mulder, accusing him of assault and theft. The lawyer was sympathetic, but pessimistic. Mulder, he said, had disappeared and was unlikely to return to England so long as the writ threatened. He thought my chances of recovering the medal were slight, and my chances of successfully recouping the costs of repairing Sycorax even slighter.

“Suppose we sue Bannister for the boat damage?” I asked.

“We’d need to prove that Mulder was acting on his behalf.” The lawyer shook his head to show how little hope he placed on that idea.

After the lawyer was gone I lay back and stared at the ceiling and wished it had a hairline crack. The pain was insidious. By holding my breath and lying very still I could trick myself into thinking that it was going away, but as soon as I breathed again it would surge back. I felt at rock bottom. An ambulance siren wailed and a trolley rattled in the hall outside. I wondered how long I would have to stay here. The doctor had said I might limp again, but he had not prophesied how long it would take.

I closed my eyes and thought of Sycorax broken and beached, lying dismasted on a hill, with her hull rotting. The damage would be blamed on Fanny Mulder, and he was gone. I’d lashed out at him with the law, but that was a puny weapon, and there was no certainty that he would ever be found or that, even if he was, he would have funds that could rebuild Sycorax . The repairs, I knew, would be up to me. I thought of my small bank account. I could patch the hull with salvaged iroko and slap marine ply on the coachroof. I could make new masts if someone would give me the trees. I could replace the stolen lead with pig iron, but it would all take time, so much time, and the sailing season would slip by and Sycorax would not be ready for the water till the winter gales were filling the channel.

And even then she would not be ready. I knew I could not afford the blocks and lamps and propellor and sails and sheets and wire and instruments. She would take a fortune and I knew I was trying to stretch a few hundred pounds to fill a bottomless pit. The crane fees to lift her on to legs would half break me. I couldn’t even afford a new VHF radio, let alone the seasoned oak for her rotted frames.

I’d have to sell her for scrap value and I’d be lucky if I saw five hundred pounds. Or else I could whore to the newspapers and sell my story. I wouldn’t do that.

So if I wouldn’t whore I would have to sell Sycorax . I knew it, and I tried to fight the knowledge. She was a rich man’s toy, not a penniless man’s dream. I could not afford her, so she would have to go.

The door creaked and I opened my eyes.

A tall man stood watching me. I did not recognize him immediately. I should have done, but his long jaw was slightly jowlier than it appeared in photographs, his blond hair less glossy, and his tanned skin more pitted. It took a second or two before I realized this really was the famous Anthony Bannister, but Anthony Bannister without either television make-up or the kindly, flattering attention of a photographer’s airbrush. He looked older than I had expected, but then he smiled, and instantly the imperfections were overwhelmed by an obvious and beguiling charm. “Captain Sandman?” His familiar voice suggested dependability and kindliness.

“Who the hell are you?” I wanted to resist his charm and shatter his confident assumption that I would instantly recognize and trust him.

“My name’s Bannister. Tony Bannister.” There were nurses standing behind him with silly looks on their faces; they were excited because the great Tony Bannister was in their hospital.

It was like a royal visit, and the staff seemed struck mindless by the occasion. Bannister smiled on them in gentle apology, then closed the door, leaving the two of us alone. He looked fit and trim in his superbly tailored tweed jacket, but as he turned from the door I noticed how his shirt bulged over his waistband. “I think we have a mutual problem,” he said.

I was surprised to detect a nervousness in him. I’d expected a man like Bannister to stalk through life with an insouciant and unconquer-able confidence. “My only problem is a boat”—I could feel the insidious seduction of his fame and wealth, and I fought against it—“which your Boer wrecked.”

He nodded in immediate acceptance of the responsibility. “My fault, but I was assured the boat was abandoned. I was wrong and I apologize. Now, I imagine, you want it restored to perfection?” He’d stolen the wind clean from my sails. I stared up at the famous face and, despite my reluctance to join the world’s uncritical admir-ation of the man, I found myself feeling sympathetic towards Bannister. He had shown honesty, which was the quality I admired above all things, but I also felt flattered that such a famous man was here in my room. My belligerence faded. “I can do the work on her myself,” I said, “but I can’t buy the materials. I’m a bit skint, you see.”

“I, fortunately, am not skint.” He smiled and held out his right hand. He wore a gold bracelet, a gold wristwatch and two heavy gold rings.

For some reason I thought of one of my father’s favourite sayings: that principles are very fine things, but are soluble in cash. But for Sycorax ’s sake, only for Sycorax , I shook the golden hand.

“You have to understand,” Matthew Cooper said, “that it’s a rough cut.”