The fellow crossed his arms, his expression petulant. He puffed on his cold pipe.
Another wherry drifted to Queenhithe Stairs, the boat bumping against the pilings. “What’s afoot, mate? You seem in the droops this fine chill morning.”
“I’m a’ waitin’ for a few more bodies to fill this here boat.”
David stood, causing the wherry to roll dangerously. He jumped onto the quay and extended a hand to Sara. “Mistresses, do come along. We will go to this other boat.” He turned to the wherriman. “How much will you charge for three persons to Deptford?”
Sara boldly stepped onto the quay, but fearful of the plunking water against the boat and pilings, Frances’ belly heaved. With great reluctance, she gathered her skirts and edged her way out of the wherry. Water splashed; the accumulated rubbish swirled. A dead fish rolled to the top, bringing a foul stench.
Soon, she’d fall in the drink and drown, or the tide would rush in. She considered returning to the safety of her home, and her calming puzzles, her missive to Mister Hopkins.
The second boatman scratched his chin. He slid a glance at the other then back to David. “’Tis a long way to Deptford.”
His mate snarled. “That’s the truth of it. Will take the full day.”
“Ah, but you’ll pick up others along the way, make extra pennies,” David remarked.
The wherriman’s gaze wandered about David, his clothes, Frances and her sister, their attire. “Three shillings.”
“Oiy then, what’s this about?” the grizzled boatman jumped to his feet, making the boat dip and bob.
Frances cried out and hunched against a bench.
“You’re ruining our business you are,” the man cried.
The other thumbed his nose at the scruffy person. “You’re always a’ bleating about something, been wronged about this or that. All of us in the guild are mightily weary of it.”
David took Frances’ hand and helped her from the boat. As soon as her feet hit solid ground, she heaved a breath.
He turned to the second wherriman. “Well then, we shall take your scull to the shipyard. Let us be quick. We’ve lost time, arguing with this other.”
David helped Frances and her sister aboard the other’s boat. It bobbed and swayed.
The first boatman scowled and ground his teeth. He threw his pipe into the river. “Now look what you’ve made me do. Ruined me best pipe.”
Mesmerized by the pipe that floated for a moment then slowly sank into the debris filled water, Frances considered men very strange creatures. Her fingers touched the edges of Mister Hopkins’ letter and she sighed.
The wherriman pushed off and directed their boat into the centre of the river. The current caught it and pulled them effortlessly toward the bridge with its arches, pilings and the great feet called starlings that compressed the flow of water. As they neared the arches, the stench of damp stone, moss and rotting rubbish swamped the boat. Frances gasped and covered her face with her handkercher.
Sara grabbed her free hand. “Oh no,” she murmured.
As the wherry swept toward the middle arch, water flowed faster and the boat sailed with a speed Frances considered breath-taking. She’d never travelled so fast in the whole of her life. Her heart thudded in her throat.
“And we’re in between tides,” David exclaimed. “Just think what it would be like at high tide.”
Tears filled Frances’ eyes as she clenched her sister’s hand. The dimness of the arch closed in on them, then they dashed into it. She was momentarily blinded after the bright light that reflected off the dissipating fog.
Water dripped. Great strings of moss brushed their heads and shoulders. A thick droplet splashed onto the bridge of Frances’ nose. It separated, and rained onto her cheeks. She whimpered, not knowing what horridness had just befallen her.
Suddenly, the boat sped out of the arch and dropped as if sailing upon a bubbling current. David laughed loudly. Sara gasped. Frances pressed her forehead to her knees and begged the Lord to save her from this wild and dangerous journey downriver.
The boat slipped toward ships moored in the Pool of London, their bells softly clanging. Frances was astonished to see how very tall those ships were. She seemed a pebble below a great cliff. Barnacles laced several hulls. The ships with their sails furled, the ropes seemingly tangled as they swayed together then apart. It was like a pretty painting.
The wherriman set an oar into the water and their boat veered away from the moored ships. They picked up speed downriver toward the Isle of Dogs, where an unearthly silence hung over the land. Long poles with swinging chains dotted the shore. “’Tis where men were hanged, and left to the variances of the tide,” David softly said.
“What do you mean?” Sara murmured, her eyes wide.
David regarded Sara then looked away as if he’d changed his mind. “Uhm, pirates mostly. Sad thing.” He cleared his throat.
Frances leaned away from the place as their boat drifted downriver. On the opposite bank willow trees dipped their fronds in the slow current, nearly brushing the side of the boat. A touch of stink tickled Frances’ nose.
Bells rang in the distance. “We are almost there. ‘Tis almost nine of the clock, and the workers will want to break for a dish of ale,” David said.
The stink grew prodigiously, burning Frances’ eyes and throat. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and covered her face. “What is it?” she cried.
“Deptford,” David responded. “’Tis the combination of pitch, raw wood, sulphur and brimstone to purify the interior of ships that are being refitted after long voyages.” He wrinkled his nose. “You will get used to it.”
She did not think so.
Then the shipyard came into view. Skiffs scurried around large ships anchored in the river. Cargo and raw materials were being loaded and used implements unloaded. On shore, beyond the wooden cranes was a pile of long poles. Further on, storehouses clustered with more men dashing about. Smoke from several blacksmith forges rose into the air.
David pointed. “The smithies make chains and anchors. Those long poles, there, are masts at the ready. Over there, storehouses hold hemp rope and pitch. The longest building is where they hew logs into masts. The other long building is where rigging and canvas for sails are stored.”
He turned around on the bench and faced Frances and her sister; then took Sara’s gloved hand within his. He smiled, his grey eyes earnest. “Isn’t this extraordinary? And ‘tis only the beginning. Soon, you will see for yourself a little part of what I do. When we marry, just think of the adventures we will have on the high seas.”
Frances did not like the sound of that. She slid a glance at her sister, whose face had suddenly paled.
Sara’s hand still within David’s, he pumped it. “Doesn’t that fill your heart with great joy?”
Chapter Seven
Sara’s heart had stilled. “Are you saying we will not live in my dear London?” Even though the city was filled with boisterous activity that would make her deaf one day, the fetor that burned her eyes and the back of her mouth, she never thought to leave it. “Forever?”
He released her hand as the wherry bumped against the quay. The sky was brighter, here. Only tendrils of the London fog reached Deptford.
The boatman grabbed a piling. “We have arrived. Three shillings, if you please.” His calloused hand opened under David’s bearded, Vandyke chin.
He shook the required coins from his purse, then stood. “Come ladies. Now, we will see the truth of this business. My business.” He gave Sara a quelling regard.
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
He took her hand and guided her to the stone steps.
“I shall have your thoughts, sir, or you’ll be the sorrier for it.” Sara waited with arms akimbo as he assisted Frances.
He suddenly grinned. “Is that so?”
A terrible thought assailed Sara. “I will not live in Dieppe, sir. I am not of the popish persuasion. You’ll
have a fight on your hands, if that is your intention.”
He laughed. “We shall not live in France. Haven’t you heard the Frenchies burned my effigy whilst running up and down Paris’ streets?” He shook his head as if astonished anyone should detest him so. “Methinks they are an overly passionate people.”
Since he had been born in Dieppe, Sara considered this man she was to marry passionate as any Frenchman. A small thrill ran down her spine. She would like to know how hot his blood burned and would ask Father if they could bundle in the evenings. She suppressed a smile.
He motioned toward the river where three tall ships lay anchored, several skiffs scuttling about the vessels like bluebottle flies. “Those are three of the four Frenchies we took whilst near Québec. As you can see, one’s bowsprit is being repaired.”
“What is a bowsprit?” Frances laughed. “Seems like something from a faerie book.”
“Not a sprite.” David clicked his tongue. “’Tis the mast they are attaching to the front of the ship. It came from over there.” He turned to the large pile of poles lying on the ground, exposed to all sorts of weathers.
“You pronounced the word, bow-spreet,” Sara quipped. “I thought it also a faerie.” With a shrug she looked away, biting her tongue to keep from laughing. “Must be the Frenchie in you.”
His eyebrows rose into his hat brim. “Are you saying I don’t speak properly God’s good English?” His eyes were wide and she broke into a bevy of giggles.
David grinned. “I like your laugh.”
Sara’s cheeks heated. She turned away and gazed at the buildings that beaded the grounds. “Seems strange we are at a royal dockyard and you are a merchant.” But then she remembered the king had engaged David and his men to menace the French, a dangerous thing.
She did not like that he would engage in a war, killing and maiming. She liked David very much, his carriage, his humour, and did not want him hurt. The idea of him dying before they were married suddenly struck her like a blow to the gut.
“Aye, the king allows this since we are doing his will. Our victuals, powder and shot, the goods we will take with us in the spring will be stored in London. They’d go missing if kept here.”
“That’s extraordinary,” Frances breathed. “When repaired, will you take those ships back to London and fill her with goods? How much must you procure to fill a boat such as this?”
He frowned. “’Tis a ship, Mistress, not a boat, and you must imagine, tons of goods will fill the holds.” He crooked his arms. “Come ladies, let me show you the way of it.”
Sara took his arm and Frances the other. With a grin, he puffed out his chest like a randy cock. “Ah, this is the life, two beautiful women with me. The shipwrights will be envious.”
He directed them across the grounds to one of the largest buildings. “Let us to the canvas and mast storeroom. We must replace some that were damaged during battle. I would prefer the king pay for it, and not our merchants. So much cloth is very dear.”
“How much food do you need for such a voyage as you will undertake?” Sara asked.
“Each man is allowed two pounds of beef, three pounds of mutton and two pounds of pork per week, all salted and stored in barrels of course. We will also take live animals and pens of fowl. We need a hundred men for each vessel.”
“That’s a lot of meat per man.” Sara envisioned the decks loaded so much with food and goods that, as the ship rode the waves, it listed at an odd angle. She giggled.
“What’s so humorous?
“Nothing.” An idea started to form, but Sara would wait a little before imparting it.
“That does not include bread and biscuits, beer, fish, pease, cheese and butter,” he finished as they reached a large, tall building.
“Bread must go mouldy very quickly,” Sara said.
“Hmm,” David murmured, clearly not listening. “Here we are.”
He opened the door where Sara entered a dark, cavernous chamber. A line of unglazed windows ran along the top of the walls. Voices echoed in the shadows.
“Above is the mould room. Would you like to see it?
“What is a mould room?” Frances asked as Sara watched with interest men scurrying around long rolls of canvas, piles of bricks and ropes of all sizes. Further on, men sawed and planed long poles of wood.
Barrels filled a corner. Frances pointed. “What’s in those?”
David followed her finger. “Wine and beer; those larger ones are water.”
“Who buys all this?” Sara considered the purchase of these amounts of goods quite daunting. One must travel the length and breadth of England to find so much foodstuffs and materials from so many craftsmen and farmers. From her father’s business, she knew the wine alone would come from diverse countries that edged the Mediterranean.
David shrugged. “It is left for me to do, a task I do not like.” He looked down at her. “What’s on your mind, Twig?”
She smiled, not willing to impart her burgeoning idea. “Take us to the mould room.”
His face cleared as if he’d forgotten. “Ah yes, this way, ladies.” He led them to some narrow stairs against one wall and began to climb. Frances followed, then Sara joined them on the treads. As they ascended, Sara saw as from a bird’s eye the many different goods that were stored in this very large building.
“King Henry built this in the last century,” David intoned. “It was the largest building in the world. Then.”
“Now it is not?” Frances asked.
“I shouldn’t think so, not with the Levant and East India Companies gaining more ships and ports of call. Our people will soon cover the world, me lovelies. One day our world will seem very small, indeed.”
“I cannot imagine that.” Frances huffed. Her footfalls were slower the higher they climbed. “Not with monsters at the edge of the world ready to eat you alive if your boat, erm, ship gets too close.” She gave a breathless chuckle.
“Frances, your imagination is quite astonishing,” Sara said, a little breathlessly too. She visualized great monsters waiting patiently, their mouths agape. When ships sailed off the edge of the earth and oceans tumbled into the pit like waterfalls, the beasts swallowed everything whole.
They reached the top stair and David grasped the door latch. “This is where ships are truly built, ladies. This is the mould room.”
He opened the door to reveal a very large, bright and busy chamber. Several windows filled a wall, their leaded lights bringing in the morning sun.
On hands and knees, shipwrights drew on thin layers of wood that covered the floor. Scattered about them were sheets of paper filled with numbers, strange shaped templates, and geometric tools.
Long, narrow tables lined another wall. Men with protractors and compasses crafted small templates of ship parts made of paper and linen glued together. Once done, they gave the leaf of paper covered with numerical tables and the paper-linen templates to the men on the floor whose noses were very close to the thin sheets of wood.
They used the measurements to create wooden parts to scale. Heads and minds together, they studied what they had drawn; then either erased a line and redrew, or nodded and moved on to the next part. Men followed them and sawed the template parts.
A man on the floor straightened his back, then gained his feet. Holding a pliable wood template nearly as tall as he, he smiled and approached David. “Ah, Kirke, I see you’ve brightened this chamber more than the sun ever could.” He extended a hand.
David shook it. “My betrothed, Mistress Sara Andrews and her sister, Mistress Frances Andrews. I’ve come to show them what good work you do.” He smiled. “Ladies, this is Mister Peter Pett, the best shipwright in the world. Without him, England would be in very sad straits, aye we would.”
Pett bowed. Sara and her sister curtseyed.
“What do you hold?” Frances asked.
The shipwright smiled. “This is the pattern our carpenters will use to fashion a portion of the aft flower and half-timber. T
hey will use this as a guide to carve the real part from oak. It will be at a bended angle when done, and should—he wagged his brows at David—fit snugly into place on the vessel.
Sara could not imagine how he made full sized, actual parts of a ship from small, paper and cloth templates, transferred the shapes to soft, pliable wood; then used them to fashion an oak part. It seemed too many steps were involved to make one thing.
“I am most impressed.” She saw beautifully crafted ship models sitting on a table. “Did you make these?” She moved toward them, awed by their attention to detail, the scrolled design sterns, their gold leaf and pretty, glazed windows. “’Tis perfect,” she breathed.
“Ah, you are looking at me father’s designs.” He pointed to the grandest. “This one is a duplicate model Prince Henry which Father gave to the Prince of Wales afore he died.”
Sara and her sister leaned closer to study it.
“Truly lovely,” Frances said.
Sara nodded. She imagined tiny seamen running up and down the ladders, pulling strings to unfurl the small sails.
“It opens.” Master Shipwright Pett unsnapped latches on the forward and stern ends of the ship. It split open to reveal the interior parts; decks with cannon, chambers and little people, each side of the model equally wondrous to see.
Frances gasped.
“Oh my,” Sara said.
“Extraordinary,” David cried. “I should have one of these for me first born son.”
Pett swallowed a guffaw.
Sara snapped to her full height and gave David a narrow-eyed glare. She hoped her ire was plain to see, for the man could wag his tongue most inconveniently in front of a complete stranger, introductions given or not.
He looked at her and his skin burned florid. He rolled back on his heels, cleared his throat. “Well then, we won’t bother you more. I am grateful for your kindness.” David bowed then ushered Sara and her sister from the mould room and down the stairs.
Outside in the sunshine, Sara started to take a large breath but coughed; the combined smells of stink made her eyes water, her throat burn.
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