‘He doesn’t need to know about anything–you can always flee to France if he does. I hear they pay well.’
‘What exactly do you need?’
‘One day, some tools and a group of men strong enough to handle that thing and roll it back to shore.’
‘Would it be worth it? Is a rusty statue that everyone’s forgotten about that important?’
She prodded him with a finger and drew closer. Her mind now swayed between thoughts.
‘It’s a statue taller than a man; solid. Even if was just leaf it’d fetch a fair price. It must be bound by rope and dragged, but this old ship, with that crane, could take it up. Get everyone behind it and you can retire John. You can have everything you’ve dreamt of, and your crew can drink themselves to death in Lamb’s Wharf.’
He considered her. ‘Are you lying?’
‘Ah! See for yourself tomorrow.’
He stumbled, placing one hand onto the table to steady himself. He wiped the other hand on his formal shirt and raised his glass of merlot. Sarah stood. It was a toast, and he knocked his glass with hers.
‘To gold and greed,’ John said, as he drained his glass.
‘To gold and greed.’
John shook his head at her. He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. ‘Good evening Lady.’
Sarah stepped outside into the night and felt eyes upon her. Alex and Cyrus had expectant faces and mischief in their manner. She placed her hands on her hips and swayed from the wine.
‘Well Lady? Get what you were after?’ Alex said.
‘He’s agreed to lots of things. Tomorrow we’ll be back on that island.’
‘To what end?’ asked Cyrus.
‘There’s a statue down there,’ she said. The two men looked at her, sceptical.
‘Have some faith, it's valuable. Where do you think the rumours of gold came from? If anything, they’ll smelt it and everyone gets paid.’
As Cyrus thanked her, their conversation was cut short by a sea–song. It echoed across the bay with fiddle, drum and concertina. Three sailors stood, and took turns to shout the lyrics.
‘She had hair the colour of the sky, stole every man’s eye and made them sigh.’
‘Drown those sorrows and drink your cup dry,’ sang the rest of the crew.
‘Tested your faith and gave you the wink, calm to waspy, in a blink.’
‘Drown those sorrows and drink your cup dry.’
‘Raised ev’ry mans’ blood, made them curse as much as they could.’
‘Drown those sorrows and drink your cup dry.’
‘Fair blessed is he who lays wit’ her, he’s gone forever, one less to slur.’
‘Drown those sorrows and drink for that man.’
‘Frightful waves as heave her breast, careful your step or it’ll be your rest.’
‘Oh, oh, oh, fill those cups up!’
The crew cheered and cracked open another cask. It was a wake, of sorts. Several tables had been set with lanterns and dry foodstuffs giving the deck a welcome feel, a coffin lay in the middle to represent the Westlander killed on her sloop. Sarah covered herself with her arms as best as she could, she felt awkward amongst these men. Before the contract and terms were signed, there was a strict policy of her own cabin to herself, and none approached her unless it was business. The privateers in turn did not venture near her, not because she was a woman, but because of the rumours she was a witch. As per the rumours would say, she could stop a man’s heart or drive him to madness. Here and now, it was becoming too familiar for her, too friendly. Cyrus gave in to his hunger and started to eat with plenty of watered rum and wine to wash it down.
Sarah paced until she heard footsteps behind her. John stood with his door open, his shirt with spilled red wine on it and a leer in his eyes.
‘Quite the performance my boys can do.’
‘They’re talented. Do they take requests?’
John chuckled and coughed before he raised his voice. ‘Lads,’ there was fresh laughter, ‘the Lady would like to sing you a song, what do you say to that?’
They gave another cheer and Sarah scrunched her face in embarrassment. Before she could retort, John had stumbled back into his cabin. There was a click as the door locked shut. She swore and faced her audience with a half–smile.
‘I don’t know any rough songs you boys might enjoy-’
‘Sing us to sleep with a lovely lullaby then,’ heckled one of them. They all laughed in her direction.
‘All right, something different, something for the soft boy over there.’ She knew that nickname would stick.
Sarah cleared her throat and began to sing. She sang a tale taught to her long ago by her mother, a tale of a witch and a thief in love. The witch gave birth, lost her daughters and found them again, resurrected in sunlight. It was a plain song, but a joy to sing. Sarah finished and looked straight ahead. To her surprise there was no sound from the crew, they sat, still enchanted, still enthralled. She gave them a sly smile, walked back down to her cabin, climbed into her hammock, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
✽✽✽
By first light, after breakfast, all saw the bloody blue bruises of the horizon lighten. Sarah took stock of the sea, and imagined the ship rested on sapphire, unrolled like a sheet and smoothed into place during the night by some celestial giant. The group of men sent to ransack the temple were ready to come back. She felt the carrack with quarter–sail lurch towards the bay again. A hand thrust itself into the air with a red handkerchief alerted the Tail that it was ashore. Sarah took a brass spyglass from her jacket and held it up. Alex and Cyrus led the group back to the valley. She swivelled on the spot and spied the larger boat that was ready to take the weight of the statue. ‘Fancy a look?’ she asked John.
John grasped the scope and turned it to the group and back to each boat, satisfied he collapsed it and handed it back.
‘Now we wait.’
Sarah tensed her legs as the Tail weighed anchor. Later in the day she likened she could see the statue from the aft; but it was just fantasy that played on her mind. She lurched and felt her throat spasm; she threw up the fish from last night’s dinner over the gunwale. Then it was a sickness I’ve caught. The quicker back home the better.
She motioned one hand to the crew on the beach to ready themselves for the statue. They piled sand and logs to form a ramp into boat that waited. Along the crest of a dune, she could see the heaviest set sailors at the back, the strong wiry types at the front. They tugged as the ropes strained and squeezed themselves around the statue. The wooden crane next to her took the weight as the statue was secured. The deck of the carrack groaned as the statue was clear of its bondage. The rest of the crew along with Alex and Cyrus climbed aboard to help move it onto sheets of tarp. It landed with a singular thump and settled. When the toil was over, the crew studied and poked at the statue; few had seen gold, even fewer had seen a statue made of gold. John drew a knife and scored the statue across its arm, it gleamed underneath.
‘I had doubts Lady–but there it is. My God. It’ll bring fortune to many of us I’m sure. You’ll have a share of it, perhaps a couple of ingots for your own.’
Sarah kept a healthy distance throughout the affair. Now seeing it proper, and ripped out of context, the statue was eerie. No sense of history surrounded it, as though it occupied a space all to itself, defying time and scrutiny. Now in the sun, she could see it was a figure of a proud warrior: a round shield in one arm, and spear in the other; his arms in salute to the heavens.
‘I'll take none thank you. Consider my share as a bonus,’ said Sarah, her cheek twitching.
✽✽✽
For the travel back to London Sarah took a chance to recover. She warmed to the crew, shared food and drink, taught them to sing, and none heckled her again. Boson Perry took her likeness onto paper and carved a figurehead with a trunk felled from the island. She admired it as it grew in shape and form. Her nights were lonely and the days filled with chores and sun. Trav
el by sea was a novelty that soon wore thin. It was replaced with melancholy that stuck in her mind from breakfast to supper. She craved home and country, to be in a cooler climate, with familiar food and pace of life. She made efforts with John to join him for dinner at night, and kept to herself during the day. Without animosity between them, they discussed his plans for the gold and future business. The last day of voyage was unremarkable as they ventured into the waters of London. Frost set course for Sea Breach, a small fishing village that teetered on cliffs. There they departed onto dry land and spent a week to smelt the statue and divided the gold with a trusted smithy.
The crew each had three ingots of gold stamped with their names, each the size of a tinderbox. Sarah advised the crew to invest or hide them. The majority of the crew left immediately towards Lamb’s Wharf to gamble and cavort. Others that remained looked towards their families and their future. After farewells, Sarah, Alex and Cyrus were the only three left. Sarah (as promised) hired both men. In return, she expected them to guard her estate and body. They settled at a dreary inn, and sequestered fresh horses for the next day. They were old mares, but speed was not important; they had no urgent schedule. They rode into Wood Farm one morning and passed through the glassy countryside. Frayed trees littered the road towards London, burnt outhouses smoked the skies. Gibbets swung in the chill wind filled with the remains of Westmen. Sarah gagged as she knotted a cloth square around her nose and mouth. As she looked at Cyrus and Alex, they both stared at her and breathed the air in deep; the smell was familiar to them.
‘Nothing worse than the silence,’ mused Cyrus.
‘I’m not sure if the silence or the din when it starts is worse,’ said Alex.
‘I hope to never have to suffer the latter,’ replied Sarah.
They hugged their clothes and pulled hoods tight as they rode in silence. The deeper they travelled inland the colder it seemed to become. Poor–folk and homeless gathered in small cliques. They stood close to fire–pits dug in the hard ground for warmth. Shacks and brittle huts had sprung up around outposts. Mercers had moved in to take advantage, and sold food and whatever fuel needed. Sarah realised the fighting had stopped here on these grasslands. The Westlanders had gone no further to threaten London. Her heart lightened to see alabaster domes shining ahead on the horizon. The city had not broken; her walls left unsullied. Ships with dull blue and square sails busied up and down narrow inlets and rounded the bay on their right. Barges with spotted livery came to and from inland waterways.
Galleons, cogs, galleys and carracks dotted the Darkwater, displaying a spectrum of pennants. Between two sloops she spied The Lion’s Tail; it was at rest, with tired sails and scuffed hull. Sarah wondered if John had squandered his share, or had done the sensible thing and bought fresh men. She had never imagined a seaman to be so far from the cliché. The group paused to see the shanty district. A hobbled collection of pubs and brothels, set upon a rickety pier that made a crescent as it followed the bay. Lord Turner was there. She just knew he was; she just knew he expected her as soon as he saw The Tail dock. They rode down small earthworks until they reached a gate for inspection. Sarah’s papers passed them without question and they surrendered their horses to a knacker. They climbed down steps until they reached the lowest tier where ferries made business. The noise and rush of motion was intoxicating, she finally felt as though she had come home.
Sarah walked towards Boxwood’s customs house. It stood, as a trophy on a plinth, dead centre of it all. It was a utilitarian block of white marble and stone, with guards at every entrance. Foreign-folk would stand to gawp; locals would tip their hats to the marines on duty. Its many floors stretched far upwards. She passed with Alex and Cyrus until inside the lobby. Georgian architecture clashed with fine trim. The ensorcelled ceiling, marble busts that filled niches in the walls; London’s cryptic coat–of–arms imbued into the floor visible to all who stepped inside. Sarah looked up too fast and felt dizzy at the enormous stair that wormed itself all the way up to the top flight. She looked back down at the pattern on the floor. Two rampant dragons on a fetch of silver with a gold shield that hovered above the words: DOMINE DIRIGE NOS. A congregation formed at the far end of the reception.
The steward of the house and administrators gathered around a tall man dressed in fine sable. Sarah stomped forwards, her heels clicking on the floor and swept her riding cloak up to distract. She coughed, enough for the clerks hidden behind their desks to take notice.
‘Lord above, my Lady Saville!’
Lord Turner strode towards her and took her hand with a kiss. Sarah could feel herself heat at the attention and took note of any changes to Turner.
‘You haven’t changed my Lord. I expected a pretty creature to be hanging off your arm as you toured around the city.’
‘My Lady Saville–you have more substance and grace about you than any other woman can offer. Besides I would miss your sharp mind.’
He took her with a serious look, and then laughed. He waved at the officials behind him to move on and invited her to follow alone. Sarah granted Alex and Cyrus the afternoon off–to rendezvous at her estate for the evening. Giddy, she ran after the lord through the busyness. She chased him back to his pristine office where they settled in chairs and looked out towards the docks.
‘A drink? You must be exhausted,’ he asked.
‘Please.’
He poured two half-glasses of lemon liquor corked in a spiral glass. They both drank in one short gulp. The bite of the alcohol was overpowered by a zip of lemon; Sarah couldn’t decide whether it was pleasant or a gimmick. She bent her elbows on the hard wood desk and stared at Turner. She waited for him to ask the first question.
‘So, here you are,’ he began, with a delicate smile. ‘My people tell me there’s a gang of pirates out there with gold ingots the size of a man’s thumb. Frost’s pirates, gladly spending it here, and I gather, spending it on more exotic pleasures in Lamb’s Wharf.’
‘Gold,’ Sarah started. ‘A gold statue just waiting out there–can you imagine it? It was pure fantasy to find it again. In fact, I’m uncertain the past week has not been some strange dream. And, and-’ Sarah gestured more than she would have liked, ‘that flower was real. I hadn’t imagined it. I was shaking with joy–I was utterly jubilant Percy.
Percy poured another set of liqueurs. ‘From the start–if you please.'
It was a memory that started from Sarah’s own study one summer’s morning. Her conception of an expedition to reality took several months’ worth of research. From what she bequeathed with her father’s Will; she began to convert the Saville estate into a museum of antiquities. Any curiosities or artefacts at markets she snapped up and began a small enterprise. She repeated what Turner already knew; it took one month to ready supplies, crew, and ship. A further month spent on permissions, legal matters and writs of passage. They had formed an informal relationship from regular meetings. Lord Percy Turner enjoyed her passionate arguments for the preservation of English heritage. She admired his ambition and pursuit to place London as the centre of the world. She explained the first leg of the voyage. Smooth through the waters around London and into The Channel's current. From there it was west to the Cape of Strangers and Port’s Mouth. Miles they had travelled until The Tail reached an island in the mist. Several pages in her mother’s diary were devoted to sketches of its silhouette. Further still were dedicated to fauna and flora.
‘And the flower, the peony, what is it?’ he said, before she could continue.
‘Something unique Percy, it was strong enough to knock me unconscious.’
‘Knocked you out? Was it poisonous?’
‘It survived a long time alone, untended. It seemed innocuous. I was probably taking an ill turn from the ship’s food.’
He sat in silence. With a motion he shuffled towards the balcony windows and opened a small hatch that refreshed the air. He looked across the bay with an expression of worry–to Sarah she recognised it as one of concentra
tion. Lord Turner took pride in his machinations. She sat quiet. Her mind drifted between when she returned to her home and the more recent memories on board The Tail.
‘The plant does not interest me, but the gold changes things.’ He walked towards the office doors and bolted them shut. ‘How many know of the island?’
‘John Frost, he’s loyal to you, and the crew of thirty–odd.’
‘And the statue was completely smelted? Nothing remained?’
‘No, none–everyone was present at the smithy.’
‘And the smith?’
‘He wasn’t present–we followed his instructions and rented his workshop.’
‘There’s no point in asking anymore questions, the news will have reached France by now.’
‘I’ve been as discreet as possible Percy.’
He sighed. ‘You’re not to blame.’ Percy rubbed his chin in thought. ‘Did you hire help Sarah? From Greenmarket?’
Sarah smoothed her fringe and sat back, her legs almost crossing.
‘I did, but did not trust them fully. The gold was to pay the ship and crew. Why do you ask?’
Percy’s face dropped. If it was only in a second that his mood soured, it was only in a second that he recovered and gave a practiced smile. His fists were balled tight. Sarah cocked her head, and then rose from her seat to comfort him. Percy drank a measure of the liquor and continued.
‘My next plan is to get there with as many men as possible as quickly as possible, ahead of any other competition, and scour that damn island clean.’ He rolled out a map across the desk.
‘A risk,’
‘Then, God willing, I’ll find some more gold, or similar.’
‘To what end?’ she teased.
He smiled at her, wrapped his arms across her back, and brought her in close. ‘Enough to make this city whole again.’
The First House Page 6