Weatherlight The Tempest

By Larne Shields

One hundred Guineas (£105) is the reward offered for the live capture of Tom McCauley. He is wanted on two counts of murder, about which he knows nothing. In order to survive, he needs to escape Ireland, which is going to cost money. Tom is neither thief nor beggar. He needs to find employment. He changes his appearance and identity. Mick Duggan is a common enough name to adopt, but unbeknown to him, there is at large, an escaped convict by that name. When soldiers capture McCauley assuming him Duggan, Tom needs to make a decision. Should he confess his identity and almost certainly face the hangman? Or should he accept Duggan’s sentence of seven years penal servitude?
WEATHERLIGHT the tempest is a story of forbidden love, horrific tragedy, and anomalous friendships. Initially set in the wake of Ireland’s cataclysmic famine, the pages are filled with shifting fortunes, skulduggery, miraculous escapes, with a modicum of wit and humour. The setting shifts, not without incident, from the Emerald Isle to Southern Africa, where Tom McCauley embarks on astounding new adventures.

“I found your story to be engaging, pacey, filled with interesting characters, unusual events and episodes, surprising little snippets of humour and unexpected outcomes that continually left me eager to find out what was coming next. I also loved the cultural contrasts and diversity, as well as the different vernaculars that you used throughout the narrative, as they all enriched the story and made it very colourful and cosmopolitan.”
Editor’s note

About the author

From a seafaring background, the author studied Civil Engineering; History; and Ocean navigation. Much travelled, he lived and worked in the UK, South Africa and Namibia. During the 1970s and 80s, he enjoyed recognition as singer and songwriter, under the pseudonym Lorne Shields. He currently lives with his wife Ria, near his ancestral home in County Wexford, Republic of Ireland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larne Shields
• Release date: May 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9780620708234

Book preview

Author’s note:

Weatherlight is a fictional novel containing numerous factual chronicles. Except where historically or geographically recognisable, all characters, places and events described in these pages are figments of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual occurrences or persons, living or deceased is therefore purely coincidental.

For invaluable assistance and advice received with research conducted for this story, as well as encouragement to persevere under sometimes difficult circumstances, I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to: - Philip Shields (my brother); Eduard Ras (my cousin); Rudi Herholdt (my uncle R.I.P.); Michélle Angélique Shields (my daughter) Dijon Venter (my son-in-law); Keith Stanley; Byron Sokolich; Jerry Minnaar; Michael Goodson; Johan Goosen; Hans Möhle; William Mhangwa; Mike Basson (R.I.P.); Peter Kgwete; Clive Karusseit; Mark Breed; Gary Boyle; Marcel Fouché; Tony Jeffers; Tom Mcgrath; John Butler; and editor & fellow author, Heather Hearn; all of whom I regard as true friends, and each of whom has made a solid contribution towards the completion of this novel. I further acknowledge that there have been others who have afforded me considerable help, but whose names I either do not know, or that escape me at the time of writing. To those good people I do apologise for the omission, but do nevertheless proffer my heartfelt thanks. Finally, completion of this novel would not have been possible without the support of my soulmate Ria Shields (nee Engelbrecht).

Larne Shields

Contents

Author’s note:

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART II

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chaper 17

Chaper 18

Chaper 19

Chaper 20

Chaper 21

Chaper 22

Chaper 23

Chaper 24

Chaper 25

PART III

Chaper 26

Chaper 27

Chaper 28

Chaper 29

Chaper 30

Chaper 31

Chaper 32

Chaper 33

Chaper 34

Chaper 35

Chaper 36

Chaper 37

Chaper 38

Chaper 39

Chaper 40

Chaper 41

Chaper 42

Chaper 43

Chaper 44

Chaper 45

EPILOGUE

PART I

KNOCKSTONE

1

I’m gonna die... Robbie’s brain throbbed as he approached the stables. God, this is unbearable. He had never before had a hangover, and he swore that whether or not he survived this one, he never wanted another, ever again. He moved cautiously, for despite his status as carriage footman, and him being the only son of Bruce the coachman, Robert McFadden had no right to be at this place, at this time. Old Tridiggan was strict about that sort of thing. While Robbie didn’t care if he lived or died, he just didn’t want to get into trouble. All the same, he defiantly felt entitled to a lunch break. I’m doing no harm, he consoled himself. He’d been working in a stupor since early morning, down in the coach-house, scrubbing, waxing and polishing. All that, after precious little sleep during the past thirty-six hours. Last night in Bandon had been a night to remember – not that he could. His father and a bunch of village folk, many of whom he’d never met before, had helped him celebrate his coming of age in his clan’s age-old liquid tradition.

Fortunately for Robbie, nobody noticed him slip through the tack-room, into the barn. He located an empty stall, with hay scattered over the ground and a blanket draped over the rail. He lay down in the shadows, where he promptly drifted off to sleep.

This morning had started out partly overcast. From time to time, the sky cleared enough for the sun to brighten the Irish landscape. Last night’s pink sunset had suggested today would be a pleasant one for a ride in the country, which it was, until around noon. The change, when it came, was abrupt. Darker skies with sombre clouds swept ominously in from the west.

The solitary rider reined in her gelding and turned in the saddle. She glanced upward. The unexpected drop in temperature made her shiver as a gust passed through her thin, white linen blouse. She’d been relaxed with her thoughts, until the advancing curtain of gloom assured her she was going to get wet. Serves you right, Claire, she rebuked herself, now let’s see what we can do about it. There was no time to lose. Having five miles of countryside to cover and several obstacles to clear en route, she was going to need more than a little luck to outrun the weather. Best get a move on then. A sideways tug on her reins, a sharp kick of her heels and a click of her tongue, turned Conker in the direction of home. Wind-induced tears soon streamed from the outer corners of her amber eyes. Her long chestnut hair fluttered wildly, as the terrain flew by at breakneck speed. Conker could hardly hide his delight at the freedom to stretch his legs. Taking long strides, he easily cleared each hedge, boundary wall and ditch they reached, until almost too soon, Knockstone Estate was in sight.

Claire felt the first droplets patting her shoulders. Oh, bother! She’d failed to beat the rain. No matter… we’re home. She relaxed, allowing her exhausted palfrey to choose his own pace for the final furlong.

The sudden downpour came as no surprise for Tom McCauley. The abrupt coolness and darkening sky had given ample warning as to what was sure to follow. He’d hoped then that Mistress Claire, too, would’ve read the signs and returned before the skies opened. She had not, so now he could only trust that she was somewhere safe and dry. Thoughts of her filled his mind, as he dragged a hessian sack of oatmeal over the cobbled yard, into the shelter of the barn.

His leather waistcoat over puff-sleeved white calico shirt, dark work trousers tucked into riding boots and long jet-black hair tied back with a thong, gave him a swashbuckling appearance. This image assailed Lady Claire, as she trotted Conker through the horse-yard entrance. The clip-clop sounds of iron-shod hooves on flint cobblestones made Tom look up. The sight of the soaked, tousled young damsel made him smile. He instantly abandoned the sack he was hauling, and hastened to assist her with dismounting. When she responded with an appreciative twinkle in her eye, he couldn’t suppress an intake of breath. There was something about being on the receiving end of such a smile that took his breath away. She turned her head slightly to look away as though embarrassed by her own thoughts.

‘The rain...’ her words tailed off as warmth rose to her face. Another cloud erupted and rain poured wildly, splattering them both. Tom immediately took charge and guided Claire and the gelding through the barn door.

‘Milady should change out of those wet clothes, before she catches a chill,’ he teased her with a pseudo-English accent. She giggled briefly. The stable-barn provided ample shelter from wind and rain. Nevertheless, Tom lifted a blanket from a rail and brought it to his mistress.

‘This one’s clean, washed yesterday - no towels around, sorry.’ His smile was mischievous and easily read, even in subdued lighting. He placed the coverlet around her, allowing his arms to remain lightly on her shoulders, an indication that he wanted to embrace her.

‘Careful Tom, do behave,’ Claire spoke softly, and with face wet and rosy, withdrew from his touch. She couldn’t avert her gaze from his eyes though. Those eyes that had first attracted her to him, like silver-blue sapphires, seemingly possessing a light of their own.

‘My dear Lady’s wish is my command.’ He took a backward step and bowed, as would a gentleman. His roguish smile remained.

‘Oh Tom,’ her voice was barely above a whisper, ‘you know I feel as you do. Nevertheless, you must realise, that this is not a good time. I am sure to be missed, and this is the first place they’d ... no! Please don’t interrupt.’ Her right hand emerged from under the blanket to touch his lips. She glanced around. Despite having no reason to suspect anyone else listening, she continued to speak softly:

‘I ought to tell you, I did some serious thinking, about us I mean ... whilst out there,’ her head nodded towards the outdoors, ‘and I have an idea.’ Her blushing, having subsided, rose again. Tom looked longingly at the young woman he loved with an ache he couldn’t describe, not grasping her meaning. Strands of hair plastered against the side of her face made her look cute, vulnerable and even younger than her seventeen years. He felt an urge to step closer and comfort her, but intuitively refrained.

‘I hold my breath in anticipation, my Lady love,’ he’d also lowered his voice, only because he assumed it was what she wanted him to do.

She leaned closer to divulge what she’d been thinking. Her suggestion was surprisingly audacious, almost challenging, but quite alluring. He readily agreed, though not without apprehension, mainly because he wasn’t sure as to exactly what she had in mind.

The arrival of Lady Claire and Conker disturbed Robbie, for he was a light sleeper; nonetheless, he made no sound as may betray his presence. He heard his mistress speak, followed by Tom’s reply, which appeared to lack sincerity and due respect. Robbie frowned. He disapproved, for he would never have dared such familiarity. He was a lad who knew his place, and to him it sounded as though Tom was forgetting his. Robbie controlled his breathing and listened intently. They were speaking softly, but not quietly enough. He could hear most of what they were saying.

A woollen blanket, hung over a horizontal beam pole, helped to conceal him until, without warning, Tom removed it. The hiding footman could now see Miss Claire clearly, standing next to her horse, dripping wet. He saw the head-groom place the blanket around her shoulders and his heart began to pound. For a long moment, he thought he was in trouble. If he could see them, surely they could see him. He had to do something - or maybe not. Any movement on his part would attract attention. It occurred to him that he was in the shadows, partially under hay. Perhaps, as long as he remained motionless, they wouldn’t notice him at all. Robbie hoped this was so, because the scene before him was getting interesting. He needed to concentrate to hear the rest of the dialogue between the unsuspecting couple, as their voices had lowered. What he heard next shocked him. He almost gave himself away with an involuntary gasp, which he managed to suppress. His mistress handed the blanket back to Tom, who, without a backward glance, returned it to where it had been hanging. However, there was a small slit through which to spy. When at last Lady Claire turned to leave with a softly spoken ‘goodnight’, he saw Tom touch her hand.

Not that he would’ve admitted it, but for some time, Robbie had been resentful of Tom McCauley. The local youth’s stature, his natural good looks, his pleasant personality, and especially the way he always seemed to be on top of things, all really irked him. Secretly, he would’ve liked to be more like Tom, but knew he could never be. Today though, Robbie had every reason to be pleased. That which he’d witnessed here gave him all the ammunition he needed to bring McCauley down a peg or two. That his action could bring about devastating consequences, not only for Tom, never entered his mind. Not for an instant, did he believe he was acting out of malice. Rather, he felt it his duty to put a stop to these shenanigans … right away … or as soon as it was safe to move.

He watched with mounting restlessness as his smiling nemesis lit a lantern, before removing the saddle and bridle from the gelding. He became even more impatient when Tom began to whistle a cheerful air, whilst giving the horse a thorough brushing-down. Pins and needles prickled Robbie’s buttocks as he observed Tom continue to whistle, while he swept the floor and did more tidying up. None too soon, Tom bolted the gate to Conker’s stall, picked up the saddle and bridle with one hand, a lantern with the other and, after a final look around, headed for the adjoining tack-room.

Robbie waited until he was sure all was clear before rising to his feet. He exited the stable barn through the main entrance, and hurriedly made his way to the kitchen door of the mansion.

2

Mist hung heavily on the dawn twilight. A young undernourished vixen rummaged through the spilled contents of the garbage bins at the side of the mansion. She was hastily devouring what scraps there were, when she heard a sound. Though barely audible, she discerned it came from inside the house, thus sensed no immediate danger. Nevertheless, it was time to leave. She backed cautiously away from the trash-cans. With head hung below the level of her bony shoulders, she turned and slunk back across the open courtyard, halted halfway, pricked her ears and sniffed the dank stillness. Nothing … except there it was again, the rustling she’d heard. The puny scavenger scurried over to the far side of the quadrant. As quietly as she’d arrived, she leapt nimbly over remnants of an ancient dry-stone wall, to vanish through a gap in a privet hedge.

The manor was once again devoid of activity, smothered as it was by that motionless blanket of fog. Somewhere, a horse snorted and, further away, a rooster crowed, both sounds muffled by the dampness in the air. The kitchen door opened with hardly a sound. Two large men, tall and upright, emerged from the gloom. Leaving the door open behind them, they appeared to glide like ghosts over the ground. Similarly clad, they wore neither jackets nor headgear. Despite the morning chill, both were in shirtsleeves and riding britches with loose hanging braces. Instead of the boots they would normally have worn, they moved silently on carpet slippers. Later, they would dress for chapel. For now, though, they were on an assignment of a more serious nature. Their moods were less than jovial. Neither a word nor a glance passed between them, as stealthily they advanced towards the stable barn, each carrying a loaded, primed musket.

Hung on greased iron hinges, the heavy wooden door was ajar. The younger man used his knee to enlarge the gap, making it possible for both to squeeze through without a sound. As they moved down the length of the barn, past the stables, they sensed rather than saw the arrival of a third member to their party, the family’s Irish wolfhound, Private Cromwell. Taking a cue from his humans, the dog moved softly to take up a position between them. He stood firm, ready and eager to do whatever might be required of him.

The three figures stood as statues and listened. Within moments there came rustling and muted laughter from above. Behind them, a horse exhaled with a flutter of lips. His pupils now dilated to abet night vision, the senior member of the trio felt his heart sink. He desperately wanted their informant to be wrong. Nothing would’ve pleased him more than to punish the coach boy for rumour-mongering. Deplorably, there they were, as predicted.

Without hesitation, he raised his cocked rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The flintlock hammer struck and a white flash lit up the surrounds momentarily. A loud report set ears a-ringing within the confines of the barn. Horses whinnied in protest. The shot went wild, gouging splinters from an oak rafter, before continuing its trajectory through the tinder dry thatching. Up in the hayloft, slivers of timber, blades of age-darkened crop and dust particles fluttered down over the young lovers’ naked bodies. They’d been bathing in the afterglow of extreme rapture, when the flash of light and the eruption of gunfire froze them both. Their hearts thumped and for what felt like ages, neither could move a muscle. Tom was first to gather his wits.

‘Holy mother of God!’ he whispered, ‘It’s your father, probably thinks we’re thieves or trespassers. Keep low,’ he said, although he hadn’t the slightest doubt as to why the old man was down there. Realisation sent a chill through him. Their arrangement had been a secret. How could anyone have known? This assignation had been determined between them late yesterday afternoon. Neither he nor Claire would’ve divulged their intentions to anyone, or would she? No, surely not.

Tom recognised that he, or rather they, had taken one hell of a chance, only to have it well and truly blow up in their faces. From this point onwards, everything he had achieved since birth was as nothing. For him there could be no future at Knockstone Manor, but more crucially, Claire was in mortal danger. The old man is not alone. There’s going to be more shooting. Tom straightaway positioned his body between Claire and the line of fire. If I am to die, so be it. His body tensed as he anticipated the blast and the impact of the lead ball that was sure to come.

Colonel Lord Charles Keefe-Stanley was a big man. Taller than most, he possessed a powerful physique and a square caricature of a face. In daylight, his bleached blue eyes were so pale as to seem almost colourless. Between them protruded a large porous nose, constrained by a ruddy complexion. Bushy white sideburns joined up with a fat handlebar moustache to frame the upper portion of his face. His fleshy jaw was at one with his corpulent neck, and the corners of his mouth turned down, giving him a look of permanent disgruntlement. His Lordship muttered a curse at having missed his target, but took solace from the presence of his son alongside him.

Archibald held the rank of Captain in his father’s regiment, despite the fact that he‘d never yet seen action, either on the battlefront or behind the scenes. He was almost as heavy as his father, but with a paler skin, and less of a paunch. He, too, wore long blonde sideburns but they, as well as his wispy moustache, were less discernible.

Captain Archibald Keefe-Stanley stood as was expected of him. His muzzle-loader’s stock against his cheek, the silver-plated butt pressed firmly into the pit of his shoulder. They caught a glimpse of the young Irishman’s bare back rising into view. The resonance of the first gun blast hadn’t completely died away, ears still zinging when the command came.

‘Fire! Shoot the...’ the remainder of the colonel’s words were lost in the reverberation of gunfire. Contrary to the older man’s expectations, Archibald’s shot also went awry, the projectile striking as far from the target as had his own.

Claire, still numbed with shock was unable to move, but her lover, seeing the second shot go wide, sprang into action.

‘Thank Christ neither of them can shoot straight, heh?’ he muttered, although he was convinced the second shot hadn’t been fired in earnest. The shooter was Archie and he knew the Captain could’ve placed the bullet wherever he wanted to. Tom was relieved that Claire was no longer at direct risk. Arch, he surmised, was giving them a chance, but there wouldn’t be another. He would have to take advantage of the few moments the shooters needed to reload. Leaning forward, he embraced Claire tightly, then rolled her off the blanket they’d used, away from the edge of the loft. Tom’s mind worked frantically as he gathered his clothes, bundling them under his arm. He smiled wryly at the challenge now facing him. Adrenalin pulsed through his veins at the prospect of what he was about to do.

‘I must leave you, my love,’ he whispered, and then made a promise he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep. ‘I will return for you, soon...’

‘I know, Tom...’ Claire whispered as she extended a hand toward him, but he was already out of reach. ‘I’ll wait for you...’ though she knew it, too, that this was good-bye. He nodded and blew her a kiss with his free hand. Taking strides on his haunches, he launched himself headlong, out through the tiny opening in the whitewashed gable. Claire failed to stifle her scream. Tom’s move had caught her unawares. She knew the aperture through which he’d leapt was dangerously high outside.

For the Colonel, it took a few seconds to realise what had just happened. He shook his head in disbelief. This was his second surprise in quick succession. He felt confident, however, that the young Irishman couldn’t possibly survive such a fall without serious injury. That alone would go some way towards satisfying his bloodlust.

Claire, too, believed that Tom stood no chance. He’d surely killed surely himself with such recklessness. Please, let me be wrong. She tried to keep low and out of sight, feeling frantically around for her clothing. Her father and brother were, however, no longer looking her way, but were scurrying out through the barn door, with Private Cromwell short on their heels. They ran along the outer wall towards the end of the building, and turned the corner, where they expected to find whatever was left of the McCauley boy.

3

From a twenty-foot drop, Tom knew he would land in the pigsty, with stalls, feeding troughs, and stony ground. He could’ve died horribly, had he connected badly. Considering those odds, luck was indubitably on his side. A huge sow wallowed in the mire down below. Too late, she perceived the strange object falling from the sky, but was too sluggish to get out of the way in time. Tom thudded and ricocheted off her fleshy hindquarter, to land with his face and chest submerged in a mixture of foul-smelling mud, pigswill and excrement. The porker gave a strident squeal and then, grunting irately, staggered away, dragging her numbed back leg. The initial impact broke Tom’s fall, but deflated his lungs. He rolled over onto his back in the muck, forcing himself to sit up, painfully gagging for air, regardless of its putrid stench. A cursory self-inspection told him nothing was broken, and more to the point, he was alive, something to be thankful for. With difficulty, he rose to his feet in the filth, trying desperately to gather his wits, along with his clothes.

There was no time to dilly-dally, he knew. Despite struggling to breathe, Tom felt the urgency to get away, or face certain death. He clambered clumsily over the pigsty wall and willed his legs to run. Stark naked and clutching his soiled bundle, he was quickly enveloped by murky low-lying vapours. After a minute or so, his breathing improved, and his stride lengthened. His limbs warming to the task, he sprinted as swiftly as manageable, before settling into a steady jog. Not once did he venture a backward glance.

The wolfhound overtook Claire’s father and brother as they cleared the short extension wall at the end of the barn. Private Cromwell leapt over and was first into the pigsty. They were too late. Their quarry had disappeared, leaving no clue as to what direction he’d taken. His Lordship was livid, his face redder than usual, contrasting sharply with his snowy facial hair. His knuckles showed white as his large hands tightened their grip on his musket.

‘He’s gone! Damn him to hell.’ The old man turned to face the younger. ‘Captain,’ he fumed. ‘Raise the alarm immediately. Gather a hunting party and tell Robert to saddle our chargers. We shall track down the reprobate, so help me ... Get a move on man! Don’t just stand there!’

Archibald saluted before smartly turning about. The Colonel gazed at the receding figure and shook his head in dismay. Reflecting on his own poor shooting, he at least had some excuse, justification even, having long since accepted that he was well past his prime. For his son though, there could be no such excuse. Had he not just last month taken first prize for marksmanship, at the Combined Forces Shooting Contest? How then could he have missed today? Was it intentional? The Colonel shook his head. Hardly likely, for then he would’ve wilfully disobeyed an order. I can’t believe he’d do that. Or, could he have shifted his aim at the last moment, to minimise the risk of harming his sister? It was a fact that the pair had always been as close as any brother and sister could be. Of course, there was also the darkness, the elevation, and confined space to consider. It must’ve been a difficult shot to accomplish - a situation that would exonerate anyone, really. He nodded. That must be it. No point in dwelling on it - better to concentrate on the matter at hand.

It was just as well that he had no knowledge of his son’s clandestine friendship with McCauley. In truth, the possibility of such an outrage would never even have entered his mind. The Colonel’s contempt for employees was almost as strong as his bigotry towards the Irish. For this reason, Archibald had kept secret the fact that Tom had earned in his heart, the place of the younger brother he’d always wished for. Indeed, for the past two years, up until his sister’s arrival back from school in England, the young men had frequently fished or swum together. They’d playfully wrestled each other and spent a great deal of time swapping yarns.

Initially, their relationship had been one of tolerance from Archibald’s side, and respect from Tom’s. That was before the stable-boy, as he was then, had used his initiative to rescue the young officer, which had probably saved his life. It was an incident from which that bond of friendship, bordering on kinship, had developed.

Twenty-one months previously, on a warm afternoon, during the summer of ’forty-seven, Tom finished cleaning out the stables. He waited patiently for his youthful master, who was on an outride, having given an assurance that he’d be home for dinner. It was Tom’s duty to tend to Wiseacre upon the Master’s return, which was long overdue. Although he couldn’t have known it at the time, Tom’s concern was justified. The broad light of day notwithstanding, it was late; dinnertime had come and gone. Master Archibald was always true to his word. If he said he’d return at a set time, that was when he’d return. Tom was certain something was amiss, and felt compelled to do something. There was nobody else on the manor capable of, or in a position to go looking for Master Archibald. Tom could ride out and conduct a lone search, except that, even in an emergency, he needed permission to take one of the horses. The head-groom had recently retired, thus was no longer on the property. His Lordship was away for the weekend. Since there was nobody else he could ask, Tom set out on foot, in the direction suggested by Wiseacre’s spoor.

Maintaining a steady pace, he jogged for approximately an hour before beginning to tire. Over a trickling brook he sprang and came upon a low, dry-stone wall, which extended half a mile or so to his left, and approximately half as much again to his right. Stopping short of the rocky boundary, he started to turn, meaning to crouch down and drink from the stream, when something caught his eye. Unable to discontinue, he completed a three-sixty degree turn, to end up gawking at Wiseacre.

The stallion stood