Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
THE STORM
Thunder rent the air, and the howling gale threatened to upturn small sheds within the keep of the fort.
The rain that lashed at his windows sent Richard closer to the fireplace in his rooms, although the building was solid and sturdy and only the slightest draught from the casements betrayed the ferocity of the storm outside.
Drill had continued as planned until the rains were too heavy to walk in, and as a result the men and their officers had all returned to their chambers thoroughly drenched and in need of a change of clothes and the comforts of a warm fire.
Any ship daring to approach the islands in this storm would never survive the tempest; it was better to keep the men safe inside until the worst of the weather passed.
Having dashed through the downpour some minutes before, Richard had left his red coat and white breeches dripping by the fire, and replaced them with his old buckskin breeches, topped by a soft lawn shirt that his mother would have insisted he discard years ago.
There were times, even for a seasoned soldier of noble descent, when comfort must take all precedence.
Now that the salt-heavy rain in his hair had dried and his feet were no longer sodden in his boots, the soldier decided it was time for a cup of tea and some cake from the officers’ kitchen, which could thankfully be reached without needing to wade once more into the storm.
He slipped on an old comfortable coat, forgoing waistcoat and cravat, and ambled out of his rooms towards the lower levels of the building where a modern iron stove kept plentiful water hot and a store of comestibles from the main kitchens waited for any men wishing sustenance outside of mealtimes.
The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he walked, and the weak sunlight that snaked through the heaving grey clouds ill-lit the hallways as he walked.
He stopped short: was that a sound ahead of him?
It was hard to distinguish a noise from inside the vast building from the continual lashing of the storm on the outside, but something about the sound stopped his feet for a moment.
He pressed forward, slowly, curious as to what it might have been.
It should not have been of any concern to hear a sound ring through the building.
He was hardly the only officer who had rushed inside with soaking garments in search of a fire and a new set of clothing, and he would hardly be the only one now seeking after warm sustenance, long before the dinner bell would ring.
Richard never was able to say exactly why he proceeded with such caution at this moment, but he was forever thankful that he did.
For no sooner had he placed his foot on the next step leading down towards the kitchens, than it slipped on some foreign object that went out from under him.
Had he been walking at his normal pace, he would have fallen head-first down the stairwell, toward what doom he could not bear to think.
Only his slow and tentative pace allowed him to grab at the banister and keep himself upright.
His hands clenched about the railing, and he hoped his momentum would not tear it loose from the wall, but it was newly built and solid, and remained firm in its place until he was able to regain his footing.
He had not called out in his alarm, but surely his racing heart must have sounded clearly through the passageways.
Had anybody heard him? Certainly, no one responded to this near-accident.
He stood perfectly still, willing his breath and pulse to slow to normal, watching, listening…
There… down the hallway past the stairs… was that another noise?
Thunder rent the air, and then, as the drumroll faded, another sound taunted Richard’s ears.
Once more, it was impossible to tell where the noise originated, whether in the heavens or in a more earthly locale, but his instinct suggested a terrestrial source for the sound that had bothered him, both now and moments ago before his arrested fall.
Who was there? What had that person done?
This was the second incident, after the stone that had struck him on the way to Somerset just under a week ago, where someone—for it must be a someone—had tried to harm him.
Who was it who wished him ill enough to attempt what could only be murder?
Both attacks had the potential of felling him as he walked.
He had an enemy, and he knew not what he had done to incur such wrath on the part of some unknown person.
“What?”
Colonel Barrow’s bellow echoed off the walls of his office, his red face furious and his heavy grey brows converging at the centre of his forehead.
“I can scarcely believe it, although I know you not to tell tales. You say somebody tried to injure you by placing this… this object on the stairs ahead of you?” He held up the wooden block with two fingers, as if it were the remains of a rat, glaring at it with equal disgust. “And this was atop that oiled rag?” He did not even deign to touch the latter item.
Richard merely nodded. It was plain to see: the block would have been enough to trip him, and the oiled rag could easily have slipped to send him hurtling down the stairs.
“Yes, sir.” Richard snapped a salute. He had come to his colonel as a friend but insisted on proper military protocol as he launched his complaint.
“And the rock you claim hit you? No, no, I do not doubt your word, but there is nothing to corroborate it.”
“I left the stone as I found it. At the time, I believed it merely one of the local boys running wild. It was, as you implied, merely a rock.”
The colonel’s face was no longer quite so red, and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose where his brows were forced together.
“I am incensed, but alas, there is little I can do.” He took a further moment to calm himself and then continued with deliberation.
“Either of these instances could be an accident—yes, even this block and rag could have been dropped by someone on the stairs—and I would not raise any alarm with an inquiry yet. No use putting someone on his guard and making him act more rashly. But I can keep my own eyes open and suggest likewise to one or two of the others whom you trust. Will that be a start?”
“Yes, indeed, sir.” Another crisp salute.
“Perhaps Rushworthy and Tollings?”
Richard bowed. “I would trust either with my life, sir.”
“Good thing that, Fitzwilliam. I believe you just have.”
The incidents kept occurring. The first was the sprig of poisonous oleander that appeared in his greens at dinner one evening.
Had Richard not been on edge, he might have speared the leaves with the rest of the steamed vegetables and eaten them without a thought.
Indeed, it was only Weekes’ late arrival from the kitchens at exactly that moment that brought Richard’s attention to his food.
How fortunate that the officers had their duties to perform in serving once a week, and that the major’s opportune footsteps were enough to slow the movement of fork to mouth so that Richard could see the unwelcomed plant.
Without a word, he lowered his implement to his plate and tried to catch Colonel Barrow’s eye whilst avoiding making anything of a scene.
“Vegetables not to your taste, eh, Fitzwilliam?” One of the other officers had seen the hasty reversal of the fork’s path.
“Not tonight, Oxley. I’ve had enough chard and onions this week to satisfy a Welshman.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have more of a taste for them!
” He let out a guffaw with his comment but watched the others very carefully for any reaction.
There! Did Weekes blink? Was this the enemy?
It was time to watch the major very, very carefully from here on.
As the summer melted into autumn, the attacks continued.
There was little rhyme or reason to their incidence, but Richard determined that Weekes must be behind them.
There was the heavy rock that fell from the fort’s walls just as Richard was completing drill one day.
Weekes’ group were on watch from exactly that location, although when asked afterwards, his men swore they never saw anything amiss during their duties.
Then there was the sawn-through plank on the ersatz bridge that spanned two of the sheds where only Richard was known to go, the Portuguese-Man-o-War that appeared in the bucket from which he drew his washing water, and the mis-loaded musket that nearly exploded during one of his drills with the men.
As the weather began to turn, Richard was sent once more to the other end of the colony, there to oversee some of the ongoing construction at Fort St Catherine and the nearby redoubt further up the hillside that protected St George’s from the rear.
He was to go only for a week, to be carried there on one of the military boats that ferried passengers and supplies around the islands.
He set sail on a bright and sultry morning with his papers in his pocket and a package for the commander there.
The ferry stopped first at Hamilton, then at Flatts Village, and only then continued on to the forts.
When Richard stepped off the boat, it was with an appreciation of walking once more onto solid land.
He was greeted by the commanding officer and taken to the rooms that would be his for the next week, before being invited to join the other officers for dinner. Work would begin the following morning.