The fishermen propped Watters on deck with his legs sprawled in front of him and his back to a stout mast. 'Thank you.' He glanced around, noting that he was on a solid looking fishing smack with two masts. It looked and felt very secure compared to the open vessels used by the Nesshaven fishermen.
'He don't sound English.' There was disappointment in the voice. 'He's a foreigner, like enough. Irish maybe.'
'It don't matter what he is. He's Christian; that's all we need to know.'
Watters smiled as the four-strong crew, bearded, brown-faced men, all knelt around him with one praying lustily. They ended with a single verse of a hymn then looked fondly at him as if he were their personal property.
'What's to do, mate? Who are you? How did you come to be here?'
'George Watters. From Scotland, by way of the United States Navy, and I really have to get to Dundee. There's going to be a murder else.'
'He's a Scotchman!' The preacher, who Watters took to be the skipper, looked around at his crew. 'I told you he was as English as we are. Up you get, Scotchy, and we'll get you comfortable. What do you mean, there's a-going to be a murder?'
'It's a long story, but I have to get back to Dundee as quick as I can. How far off the coast are we?'
The fishermen looked at each other with a great shaking of heads. One sucked in his breath, but they waited for the skipper to speak. 'A long way off, mister. We're fishing the Dogger, and we're not due home for months yet.' The skipper thought for a moment, fingering the piece of amber that hung around his neck as a preventative for rheumatism. 'Tell you what, though, we can put you in the cutter. They're due today, and they'll drop you off in London if that's any good to you?'
'The cutter? And London?'
The fisherman explained patiently that they belonged to a fleet of Hull smacks that fished the Dogger all winter, only returning to port in the spring. Once a week, a cutter came out, lifted their catch to carry it to market in London.
'Fine place the Dogger, but cruel for corpses. We're always hauling them up.' The skipper grinned, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement. 'We thought you was a dead 'un at first, but then we find that you're a Scotchman and not dead at all.' He touched the New Testament. 'The good Lord kept you safe.'
'Indeed.' Watters hoped that immersion in seawater had not ruined Marie's New Testament. He also hoped that whatever was in the cylinder had not been damaged.
The Hull fishermen dug deep to help Watters, scrambling through their pockets for what money they had and asking the neighbouring boats in the fleet to help so that when the cutter came, Watters felt quite wealthy. He thanked the fishermen for their generosity, shaking each man by the hand before scrambling aboard the cutter, whose crew accepted his presence with a phlegmatic calm that was entirely English. 'Back to the Smoke, mate?' The skipper asked. 'We'll have you there before you knows it.'
'How long will it take?' Watters asked as he looked around the craft with its vast sails and holds now full of silver fish.
'As quick as Christ will let us,' the skipper said. 'Billingsgate wants its fish fresh, so we don't linger. You better hold onto something, Scotchy, or the wind of our passage will blow you into the sea, else.'
The cutter's crew laughed, hoisting full sails to catch the rising wind.
The cutter skipper was as good as his word, and Watters had never experienced anything quite as exhilarating as racing up the Thames under full sail.
'How fast are we sailing?'
'As fast as we can,' the cutter's captain told him. 'You sit there. We'll have you ashore in half a mo.'
They arrived in the early evening when the respectable were bustling home from work and the denizens of the night were beginning to emerge.
It seemed that half the world's shipping sailed or steamed to this hub of Empire, with every flag represented in the Thames, from the United States to France, Sweden to Austria, as well as the ubiquitous Union flag of Great Britain and a dozen flags and ensigns Watters struggled to recognise. The crowds were immense, all seeming to be hurrying somewhere or talking at the top of their voice in their thin London accents.
Shaking hands with the crew of the cutter, Watters hurried toward the nearest telegraph office. As always in London, the streets were packed with top-hatted businessmen, side by side with the poor and the paupers who crowded around. Watters brushed away the fanning hand of a professional pickpocket, ignored the bold-eyed invitation of a be-feathered prostitute, and winced as the roar of thousands of wheels on millions of cobblestones besieged him. He had considered approaching the local police but realised that they might not listen to him. His story was too complicated and his ragged appearance not calculated to gain respect. Instead, he had decided to send a telegram direct to Beaumont's office. The operator scarcely looked up as Watters took the pencil at the telegraph office to scribble a message on the pad that was provided.
'Take great care. You are in personal danger.' Watters gnawed the already well-chewed end of the pencil before adding a few instructions. He composed another note for Superintendent Mackay and handed both to the telegraph operator, who slowly counted the words to calculate the cost.
'This will cost you a pretty penny.' The operator bent to his machine.
'You won't be sending that.' The voice was educated yet familiar.
Dear God! How did he get here?
Dressed as a respectable businessman with an ornate waistcoat beneath his tailed coat, Ted touched his cane to the brim of his tall hat. 'Well, Sergeant Watters. This is a piece of luck. You do have nine lives, don't you?'
'How the devil…?'
'How the devil did I find you?' Ted gave his gap-toothed grin. 'Pure good luck, my man. I was just passing through, and there you were, large as life.'
Brushing past Watters, Ted leaned casually through the telegraph operator's door. Giving a broad smile, he ripped the pad from operator's hand.
'What? You can't do that!'
Without hesitation, Ted pulled a long knife from inside his jacket and stabbed the telegraph operator through the heart. The operator slumped silently to the ground where his blood formed a spreading red pool. The whole incident had taken less than ten seconds; one moment the operator had been doing his duty, the next he was dead.
Momentarily shocked, Watters could only stare as the murderer cleaned the blood from the blade of his knife.
Ted kept his smile. 'You are a redoubtable sort of fellow, aren't you?' He tossed the knife from hand to hand. 'You have something of ours. I want it back.'
For one second, Watters wondered if he could overpower Ted in a straight fight, and then he saw Niner and Scouse looming in the background. Run!
Pushing past Ted, Watters ran, darting in the opposite direction from Niner and Scouse. More intent on escaping the immediate threat than in reaching any particular destination, he did not take note of his direction. There was an instant of hope when he saw a uniformed policeman at the end of a crowded street, but the pursuers were too close behind to chance stopping.
Glancing over his shoulder, Watters ran on. The docks were to his right, the smell of the river as unmistakable as the disreputable quality of the streets. By now, gaslights were flaring on those streets that the authorities deemed should be lit, and Watters found himself running northward, stumbling and gasping up the Ratcliffe Highway. Groups of bare-headed sailors' women shouted to one another as they adjusted the provocatively low cut of their dresses.
'Why the rush, sailor; ain't I good enough fer you?' A heavily painted woman clicked her brass heel on the filthy ground. 'Here! Are the rozzers after you or summat?'
Other women turned to watch as Watters stumbled by, his clothes immediately betraying him as a seafaring man, and so one of their own.
'What ship, sailor? Make your berth with us!' The crimp's face was bright with promise, his intent as vicious as any predator.
Watters ran on, past bright-windowed shops that displayed marine goods, clothing and drink in every variety from porter to
jigger gin. Advertisements for Grand Concerts plastered the doors of respectable looking dance-halls with large men standing sentinel outside. Beside them were seedy dram-shops whose fronts were painted with pictures of sailors dancing with buxom women whose living likenesses waited outside to catch the eye and wallet of the passing seamen.
Reeling with exhaustion, Watters leaned against the corner of a public house named the White Swan. He looked back down the Highway. Even amidst the scores of half-drunk revellers, he found his pursuers. Ted was staring directly at him, his respectable clothing marking him as an outsider in this street of seamen, while Scouse looked in one of the brightly lit shop windows, eying the collection of overpriced trinkets. Niner slowed to a casual walk, tall, frowning, and ugly.
'Well, are you going to block the light, sailor, or buy me a drink?' The woman was blonde, with artificial flowers emphasising the swell of her breasts. She thrust her left leg forward so her crinoline skirt rode up her shin. 'This is Paddy's Goose, you know!'
Watters took a deep breath. 'I'd love to buy you a drink.'
The woman was diminutive, with the top of her head reaching Watters's chin. 'In you come then, sailor!'
As his three pursuers spread out and approached, Watters darted inside the pub. Paddy's Goose was well known throughout the maritime world as a haunt for prostitutes and crimps. It was also larger than he had expected, with amiable-looking women of all ages dancing attendance on bronzed seamen. Amidst the raucous banter, nobody gave Watters a second look as the small woman guided him to the bar.
'Mother's ruin,' the woman ordered gin for herself. 'My man will have the same.'
Dropping a shilling on the counter, Watters kept one eye on the doorway.
'This way.' The woman led him to a corner table. 'What ship, sailor?' She was bright-eyed and cheerful rather than seductive, with a snub nose that Watters found strangely alluring. Her sharp, London accent was not unpleasant.
'Alexander MacGillivray,' Watters said unthinkingly.
'Don't know that one.' The woman smiled. 'I thought I knew all the ships.'
'From Dundee,' Watters said wryly, 'via the Dogger Bank.'
The woman looked strangely at him. 'Naw,' she said, 'that doesn't ring true, sailor. So what are you?' She eyed his battered Confederate uniform. 'Bluejacket on the run? Unusual uniform if you are.' The blonde automatically arched her back to present her semi-exposed breasts.
'Sharp, aren't you?' Watters slid down his seat as Ted Houghton looked in the pub.
Catching Watters's movement, the blonde stood up to shield him from view. 'You're in some kind of trouble, that's for sure, but not from the Royal Navy, not in that uniform.' She held up a hand. 'Don't tell me, sailor; I don't want to know.' Bending forward to adjust her morocco boots, she eyed Ted and his two companions. 'He's a bad 'un, that's for sure, sailor. Welshed on a loan, have you? Are you looking for a berth till the smoke blows away? Or just for the night?'
Watters shook his head. 'Neither,' he said honestly. 'I'm not staying. I have to get up to Dundee.'
A sudden shadow of disappointment aged the woman. 'A fine man like you too.' She sighed, nearly upsetting the false flowers while deliberately allowing Watters another display of smooth white breasts. 'I'm Katy, in case you're interested, but I can see that you're not. Why do all the good ones never stay?' Her eyes were sad when she surveyed him again. 'Not a proper sailor are you, Jack? Come with me then.' Slipping her arm through his, she led him through the throng to the back of the room then up a narrow flight of stairs. 'Don't be so nervous, Jack; I ain't a-going to eat yer.' She squeezed softly, pressing against him. 'More's the pity, eh?'
Katy led him into a small room with a single bed and a painted chest of drawers. A crucifix hung on the wall, while a narrow window overlooked an unlit alley. 'Out the window, Jack, and sharp. Look, follow me, will you?' Throwing open the sash, Katy unrolled a knotted rope. Winking at him, she slid out in a flurry of petticoats to climb nimbly down the rope. 'You ain't the first man to climb out this window; I'm telling you!'
The alley stank of urine and rats, one of which scurried away before them. A copulating couple did not pause as Watters and Katy scrambled past, and then they were back on the Highway, passing a group of raucous South-Spainers, at one of whom the women Katy blew a kiss and, moving closer, nipped his backside.
'How are you doin', Jack?' She jerked her head toward Watters. 'This is a friend of mine, in trouble with the Law.'
The South-Spainer threw Watters a beery grin and belched. 'Is that so?'
'Sure and it is. So if you see three men following, one in a high hat and fancy weskit, another a rangy looking fellow, and the third bald as a billiard-ball with blood on his sleeve and death in his eyes, say hello from Katy.' She pulled Watters a few steps further on before turning back. 'Oh, and Jack, wait for me in Paddy's will yer? If you want a berth for a night or two.'
'That's Jack,' Katy told Watters as she hurried him along. 'He's one of my regulars. Jack's a good man when he's sober but a prime bastard in drink. He's a drunken sot too.'
Watters knew the terrible reputation that London prostitutes had; he had heard them called the scum of the earth, but this woman, Katy, was she so bad? Katy guided him up the Ratcliffe Highway, stopping every few yards to speak to warn everybody she recognised about the man in the fancy weskit. 'I'll see you safe, Jack,' Katy said. 'The rozzers done me a few times; I'll not see them get an honest man like you. It's not the bluebottles though, is it? What was it? Old woman narking you too much and you didn't stop hitting her? A knifing? A welshed bet? Or maybe just smuggled goods?' Her eyes were mischievous. 'No, don't tell me; I don't want ter know. I do, though, of course I do.'
A sudden outbreak of noise behind them made Katy turn. 'That's one of your friends in trouble,' she said. 'Common enough on the Highway. Come on, Jack.'
There was a knot of well-dressed men outside what Watters thought might have been an opium den and a group of Greek seamen arguing with naked knives, while three tall Scandinavians watched from a distance.
'This is Bloody Bridge over New Gravel-lane,' Katy told him as they paused on a bridge overlooking what seemed like a ditch of stagnant water. 'A friend of mine threw herself over here.' Suddenly sober, Katy paused, pressed her hands together in prayer. 'God rest her soul, but she was dying of the pox anyway.' The devil-may-care grin was back. 'Poxed-up-bitch, we called her, but she started well enough.' Katy shrugged. 'Just bad luck, ain't it, Jack, to end up a whore on the Highway or a Jack-at-sea. Come on, now.'
Katy led him up Cannon Street Road to a prominent church. 'St George's,' Katy said as if the name should mean something to him. 'There was a riot here a few years ago, but the town's quiet now. Nothing happening.' She looked behind her. 'Right, Jack. Your friends have gone; they won't find you here, but it's time you earned your keep.' The friendly eyes were suddenly acute. 'You owe me, mister.'
Watters could not deny the fact.
'Did you think I was helping you from the goodness of my heart?' The acute eyes turned bitter. 'Nah, you have to pay your keep wiv me, Jack-my-lad.'
'You helped me,' Watters said. 'I'll help you.'
'Right then, I'll draw him up, you knock him down, and we'll split the take.'
For a moment, Watters did not understand, and then Katy's grin was back. She removed the flowers, lowered her neckline even further, and thrust out her breasts until they strained at the thin material of her gown. About to object, Watters thought of the men who were following then of Katy's possible reaction if he refused. 'Come on then, Katy!'
The grin widened. 'I thought you was a spunky one, Jack! Don't let me down now!'
It was easier than Watters had imagined. Katy stood beside St George's church with one hand on her hip and a leg thrust provocatively forward, talking to every man that passed. The first three did not reply, the fourth merely grunted, but the fifth was a youngster in evening dress, apparently keen to explore the seedier side of life. Katy helped him advance his educa
tion.
'Good evening, sir.' Katy stepped forward. 'You look a likely sort of gentleman. I like a top-drawer man like you.' She slipped her arm inside his in a manner that Watters recognised. 'Indeed I do.' She leaned closer. 'Yes, sir. With a handsome man such as you, I won't charge a penny, no, nor a farthing neither. I'll take you for the fun of the thing!'
Watters watched the youth pass through a variety of emotions, from initial pleasure to terror, lust mingled with avarice, and then a smug acceptance of his own good fortune. He was still smiling when Katy led him to the shadows in the churchyard. Watters hit him, only once, on the back of the head. When the youth crumpled to the ground, Katy looked at Watters with appreciation, 'You've done this before, Jack, I can see,' and began to search the body.
'Good pickings.' She held up a jingling wallet. 'See? Seven sovereigns, ten shillings, and a few coppers.' Her eyes were hard as she put the coins in two separate piles. 'Fair do's eh? Half each and I'll take the extra.' She stepped back as if expecting Watters to snatch the lot, but she smiled when he scooped the smaller amount into his hand.
'Good, then I won't need this.' Katy revealed the long-bladed knife that she had concealed up her sleeve. 'I'll have his clothes too. They'll fetch a pretty penny. Give me a hand here.'
Aware that he could now be transported or sent to penal servitude, Watters helped Katy strip the unfortunate youth. 'All his clothes,' Katy said, 'good quality linen will sell too, and if he's left stark, he'll be less likely to run to the peelers or follow me up the Highway.' She looked down dispassionately at the naked youth. 'He won't be running after floozies again for a while. Well, Jack,' Katy held out her gloved hand, 'we'd better go our separate ways now.' Her accent had changed again, becoming so much more refined that Watters wondered at her antecedents. 'You get back to Dundee, and I'll get rid of this.'
'It's been a pleasure, Katy.' Watters gripped her hand, nodded briefly, and walked away. He did not look back. Katy had her own life to live, he had Mr Beaumont to save, and the youth would be none the worse for learning a little humility. It was better for him to have a sore head than a dose of whatever diseases Katy would be carrying anyway.
The Fireraisers Page 23