Masquerade of Vengeance by Alice Chetwynd Ley

Three men there were, who in different ways had been culpable. He knew himself to be capable enough.īut always the passion for revenge drove him on to return to England and seek out those who, however small a part they had played, in his view were responsible for his downfall. He could have remained there then, all those thousands of miles away from these shores, working in the service of one of the wealthy farmers until he had risen to a position of some authority, even to the ownership of his own land. He might have died under the harsh rule - many had - before he at last gained his ‘ticket of leave’ and the easier times that went with it.

His lips tightened as he recalled those brutish early years: the months in irons, working like an animal in the bush, the treadmill and the lash. Not that it had ever done anything for him, other than to banish him into exile. He was here at last, back once more in his native land. He sat immobile, his body taut, staring with unfocused eyes at the solid dark rise of the cliffs sheltering the beach. The waves slapped against the sides of the boat as the men bent their backs to the oars, sending their craft running through the water towards a paler line of foam which fringed the shore. There had been no moon, but now, towards dawn, a thin grey line on the horizon just distinguished the sky from the dark swell of the ocean. For my dear grandson James, who thought it was about time.

Masquerade of Vengeance by Alice Chetwynd Ley