Rhys shivered, pulling the blanket about his shoulders. They’d come so far. They need only hold on for a few months and they’d reach the foreign shore. He’d be released from his torment. They could start life anew. Why couldn’t Siân see this? Why must she put the whole plan in jeopardy?
Blood. Rhys dreamed of blood—warm, thick, pulsing. He lurched towards a hawse bucket. It disappeared. Blood spilled onto the deck. He heard a moan, spun round. The blood was Siân’s. He grasped her hand. So cold, her body dissolving.Siân! Dear God, no!
A bell tolled.
He gasped, jerked upright. Smelled salt. Felt a warmth pressed up against him. The puppy! A dream, only a dream. He shook his head, scrubbed his face. Another bell. Two. What time was that? Five o’clock in the morning. Not too late to slip back into steerage. No, he’d put that off a while longer. He balled the blanket, shoved it behind the hencoop, heard an indignant cluck, feathers ruffling. Too early for the hens, but not for the cook. Pots clattered in the galley kitchen. Tobacco smoke wafted on the breeze. With any luck, the cook might be willing to slip him an early morning cup of tea.
As he popped his head out from between the boats, Mrs Scarcebrook’s cabin door creaked open. He froze. Waited. Saw Doctor Roberts step into the pre-dawn light, leather bag in hand, a silk hat perched atop his head.
Rhys shrank back into the shadows. He’d rather not face Doctor Roberts at this hour of the morning, let alone with the man in such a compromising position.
‘Here, Franklin, let me tie your cravat.’ Mrs Scarcebrook leaned up, brushing a kiss to Doctor Roberts’ lips.
‘Is that all?’ His hand cupped her breast.
‘For now. Look, the sky is lightening.’
‘What about later, sweetheart?’
‘Tonight. Certainly. I’ll leave the door unlocked.’
‘And in Port Phillip?’
‘Well, my husband may not like the situation. But, seriously, Franklin. What about your wife and family?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve burned my bridges there, love.’
‘And your practice, where was it again? Somewhere in the north of London?’
Wife? Franklin? Somewhere north of London. The words shifted like a kaleidoscope in Rhys’s head. He saw Doctor Roberts’ thin-lipped profile. The way he shrugged, pulling his collar up, and the pieces fell into place. Barnet, of course. Huge sums of money changed hands in Chipping Barnet. Cattle were fattened for the city markets. Welsh drovers sent letters and parcels on to their families in London. One year, Dai Phillips had brought his sister Ceinwen along—a pert, green-eyed girl, eager to work in her uncle’s Marylebone dairy. She’d managed the journey well enough. Though by Barnet she’d developed an abscess. They’d tried resting her, using the local apothecary’s powders. In the end, a surgeon had to be consulted—a sleek, well-dressed man with a practice on Barnet High Street.
‘He’s a competent surgeon,’ the apothecary’s wife explained, ‘and not afraid to use his scalpel. But don’t you go leaving that girl alone with him. He’s a gambler, they tell me, and a womaniser. I’d not be trusting him with my sister’s virtue.’
Chapter 14
Alf spent the morning waiting for a summons. It would come. Nothing was more certain. He would lose his position as chief cleaning constable. And why not? Doctor Roberts had tried to warn him. ‘Strange and haughty,’ he’d said, followed by, ‘you’d do well to keep an eye on him.’ Had he done so? No, he’d been too busy wallowing in self-pity. Now look! They’d almost had a riot in steerage.
Alf moaned, sprinkling the bed boards with chloride of lime and passed the hawse bucket back to Harvey Rolf. If only he hadn’t argued with Bridie, or let his nagging sense of failure distract him. If only he’d looked up from his busyness, now and then, he might have noticed trouble brewing.
Good man! Indispensable! The words mocked him now. Then again, hadn’t it always been the case, at the market shop, and with Bridie? He could bend and scrape, all right, bag up a delivery, but life’s subtleties always eluded him. And now this riot, just when he’d promised to sort out Annie’s pay.
‘I’ll come with you, if you like?’
Alf glanced up, forcing a smile. ‘No, Harvey. You mustn’t miss your lesson.’
‘He’d be mad to dismiss you. And Tom’s right, the lass deserves her gratuity. I’ve a good mind to tell him so myself.’
Alf grunted, pressing his brush into a lice-infested crevice. Mr Rolf worked with the tireless energy of a steam engine and Alf had come to rely on him greatly over the weeks at sea. But he doubted Doctor Roberts would be impressed by the young man’s blunt well-meant advice. Besides, Annie was his responsibility. He should have spoken up long before this.
‘Right, then.’ Mr Rolf straightened up, lifting the hawse bucket. ‘I’ll tip this water out, shall I?’
Alf nodded but didn’t look up. His head throbbed and his palms felt slick. Dear God, what a fool, to get so worked up. The whole thing was probably a misunderstanding. Doctor Roberts probably intended to pay Annie, and had simply forgotten. It was like that with the professional classes. They had no idea how much a penny meant to the workingman.
Lord, listen to that! He was starting to sound like Tom Griggs.
He would simply point out how hard Annie was working at the dispensary and ask that she be given a small gratuity. There was nothing difficult about that, nothing to get worked up about. Until now, when he was about to be dismissed.
‘Mr Bustle, Doctor Roberts wants a word with you.’ The ship’s boy stooped, catching his breath. ‘He says it’s important, sir. You’re to come immediately!’
So, this was it. A noose tightened about Alf’s neck. He straightened up, pressing his hands into his lower back and forced a smile.
‘Settle down, son. That’s it. You’re doing a good job. But, first, tell me … what else did Doctor Roberts say?’
‘Well, sir, he were stern. I were having a boil lanced—that’s when they pop it, you know—and he were stern even though it hurt.’ Puffing out his cheeks, the errand boy altered his tone to imitate Doctor Roberts. ‘“Now, boy,” he says. “Tell Mr Bustle the captain wants to see him. And tell Mr Bevan,”—that’s the Welshman, you know, that tells them stories—“Tell Mr Bevan the captain wants to see him, too. And boy,” he says. “I want to see them, immediately!”’
The captain! Dear God, even worse than he imagined.
Alf looked down at the murky water in his bucket. He’d never been inside the captain’s cabin, let alone received a summons, and he could think of only one explanation. Doctor Roberts intended to make a formal report.
Alf surveyed the deck. The floors were scraped and the privy buckets emptied. The last of the bunk boards had been scoured clean. Steerage still reeked of bilge. He ought to have fumigated. But that wasn’t his problem. At least, it wouldn’t be after this morning’s meeting.
He trudged up the ladder, splashed his hands and face in the water butt, and worked his way along the crowded deck. An unsmiling steward ushered him into the saloon and left him standing, cap in hand, outside the great cabin door. He knocked. The door flew open. Doctor Roberts balanced on his toes, like a pistol ready primed.
‘Alone! Where’s the troublemaker?’
Alf blinked in the flooding light of the stern cabin windows. ‘I don’t know, sir. I came straight from steerage.’
Alf glanced about the cabin. It was large and elegant with polished oak panels and gimballed candlesticks for light. A bed, an oval table and a mahogany bookcase were the only items of furniture in the room, apart from the captain’s ornately carved, high-backed chair. Captain Thompson inclined his head, but didn’t rise. Doctor Roberts filled the remainder of the space with his pacing.
‘How big is this vessel, Bustle?’
‘Perhaps the messenger couldn’t find him, sir.’
Doctor Roberts flicked open his pocket watch. ‘Ten minutes to walk the length of this ship.’
‘The deck’s crowded. And I
didn’t see him at breakfast time.’
‘I’m not surprised. The scoundrel’s probably hiding. But the cabin boy knows where to find him. I’ve seen to that. We’ll soon know who’s boss around here.’
Alf glanced sideways. Captain Thompson didn’t seem alarmed by Doctor Roberts’ strange behaviour. If anything, he seemed slightly amused. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought. A dismissal, perhaps? Without the formal report? In which case, he should ask about Annie’s pay now, while he still had the opportunity.
‘Young Annie’s doing well at the dispensary, sir.’
Doctor Roberts grunted but didn’t reply.
‘We’d never have managed without her, not with Mrs Scarcebrook being so delicate. She’s a good girl, too, Doctor Roberts, and all alone. She’ll have her work cut out for her in the colony.’
‘She’s competent, Bustle, though rather ghastly to look at. No doubt someone will take pity.’
‘Yes, of course, and in the meantime my wife and I will do our best. She won’t starve, not if we have anything to do with it. But, well, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, Doctor Roberts, with the girl being so competent, and you having come to rely on her so greatly, I wondered, whether, well, perhaps you’d consider … offering her a small gratuity?’
‘A gratuity!’ Doctor Roberts’ eyes bulged. ‘The morning after a riot and you come asking for a gratuity.’
‘I know it’s not the best time, sir. But I mightn’t get another chance.’
‘Good God, man. Whatever are you blathering about?’
‘I don’t blame you, sir. Honestly. You tried to warn me. “Haughty”, you said, and “you’d do well to keep an eye on him”. But I’ve been that busy with the cleaning and my stepdaughter—’
‘Enough! This is absurd.’ Captain Thompson slapped the arms of his high-backed chair.
‘No, not absurd.’ Alf swung round to face him. ‘I’m not good at explaining things. But I ask you to hear me out. I deserve what’s coming. But young Annie’s a different matter. I’d not see her miss out on my account.’
Captain Thompson blinked, shook his head. ‘Are you quite well, Mr Bustle?’
‘Yes, sir. Only I’m a little nervous. It’s just … with things as they are this morning and with Annie being under my care, I wanted to speak now, before … well, before I lose my position.’
Captain Thompson leaned forward, eyes narrowed. ‘Surely you were not the instigator of this riot?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Right, now we have established that important detail, let me ask you a simple question. Are you able to see into the minds and hearts of your fellow travellers? Or somehow direct their consciences?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then, I think that absolves you of all responsibility.’
Consciences? Absolution? Alf had never imagined Captain Thompson a religious man.
‘We’re dealing with a dangerous rebel.’ Doctor Roberts leapt back into the conversation. ‘One who is no doubt fleeing a legal entanglement. Personally, I’d like to throw the nuisance overboard. But Captain Thompson tells me this is not an option.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’m still not following.’
‘Dear God, Bustle, have you not been listening to a word we’ve been saying? The young man is a unionist and, no doubt, a criminal, and as we can’t get rid of him, we must somehow manage the situation.’
‘We? Manage! You mean … I’m not being dismissed?’
‘No, Bustle, you are not being dismissed.’
Not dismissed, or reported. Warmth stole over Alf, as if he stood with his back to a blaze. He had no idea why he had been summoned. But Doctor Roberts had used the words ‘we’ and ‘manage’ in the same sentence. As if they were colleagues. Alf held the idea gently, as if it were warm and freshly laid. He’d heard of such things happening in the colonies, places where workingmen were able to rise above their humble beginnings. So, why not here, on this ship, where he was Doctor Roberts’ eyes and ears in steerage?
A rap on the door interrupted Alf’s reverie. As if on a pin, Doctor Roberts’ head swung round. He crossed the cabin in two strides and flung the door wide.
‘Mr Bevan. How good of you to come.’
Rhys’s eyes were darkly shadowed, his boyish face guarded. To Alf’s surprise, he ignored Doctor Roberts, addressing the captain.
‘You asked to see me, sir?’
Captain Thompson inclined his head, but let Doctor Roberts reply.
‘Quite a performance you gave us last night, Mr Bevan.’
Rhys bowed. ‘Glad, I am, you enjoyed it, Doctor Roberts. You and Mrs Scarcebrook, was it?’
‘Mrs Scarcebrook has no interest in the doggerel you produce.’
‘Indeed, not with her being so delicate and needing extra care of a night time. Mind, you’ve quite a reputation with the young ladies, I believe?’
‘We are not discussing my affairs, Mr Bevan.’
The surgeon spoke firmly without lowering his gaze, but his face flushed puce above his cream silk cravat. Alf couldn’t help noticing his hands were also balled into fists.
‘Doctor Roberts is right,’ Captain Thompson interrupted from his high-backed chair, ‘as interesting as his proclivities may be. We are concerned about your political persuasions, young man. Rebellion is a dangerous force on board a ship.’
Rhys’s expression lost some of its intensity. ‘A storyteller, I am, Captain Thompson. Not an agitator.’
‘And last night’s story?’
‘About a man called Richard Lewis.’
‘Otherwise known as Dic Penderyn,’ Doctor Roberts all but pounced. ‘The scoundrel hung for stabbing a soldier during the Merthyr Riots.’
‘Penderyn was innocent,’ Rhys said, still addressing the captain.
‘You question Britain’s judicial system, Mr Bevan?’
‘I don’t need to, sir. The story speaks for itself.’
‘And not about any political aspirations you may hold?’
‘He died when I was seven.’
‘You aren’t seven now, Mr Bevan.’
‘Nor am I politically motivated.’ Rhys passed a hand across his face. ‘I’m a teller of tales, sir. Truly. I’d not intended to tell that story last night, or, indeed, to cause a commotion. But … things got out of hand.’
Captain Thompson turned his shrewd gaze on Alf. ‘What do you make of the situation, Mr Bustle? Doctor Roberts tells me you’re a solid sort of fellow. Not prone to hasty judgments. Perhaps you can shed some light on the matter?’
Solid! Not prone to hasty judgments!
This was it, a chance to prove himself to the captain, and justify the surgeon’s faith in him. But … how? He searched the men’s faces. What exactly was expected? He saw the flare of Doctor Roberts’ nostrils, Captain Thompson’s narrowed gaze, Rhys standing like a poker before him, and he had no idea what was happening.
‘I’m not a clever man, Captain Thompson.’
‘We’re not asking for cleverness, Mr Bustle. Only the truth of the situation.’
The truth. Ah. Alf could manage that. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, he generally tells stories about the past, legends and fairy tales. Quite ridiculous, in my opinion. But others enjoy them.’
‘Yet, last night was different?’
‘Yes, completely.’
‘Can you tell me how, Mr Bustle?’
Alf closed his eyes, casting his mind back to the previous evening. He’d been sitting in steerage—hot, disgruntled and tired, as always, with Tom Griggs pestering. At his wits end, if he were honest, until Rhys stepped in …
Wait! Stepped in? Was that the truth of the situation? He opened his eyes. Yes, possibly. Then what? Alf pursed his lips, recalling the banter, the sly malice in Tom Griggs’ questions, Rhys’s attempts to evade them.
‘We’ve a man in our mess who’s quite annoying.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘He asked some pointed questions, about your wife. That’s right, isn’t it, lad?’
‘Yes
. Sorry, Mr Bustle. I never meant to cause trouble.’
‘It’s all right, son. I believe you.’
And he did. For some inexplicable reason, Alf believed him, about the riot and the stories—even his friendship with Bridie.
‘Good God! This isn’t a Drury Lane.’ Doctor Roberts pointed a gloved finger at Rhys. ‘Look at him, pale, contrite, quite the performer. But he’s running, I’m guessing, and a seasoned agitator. The question is what to do until we can hand him over to the authorities.’
‘Not so hasty.’ The captain rose, pushing back his chair. ‘I think you’re forgetting who is Master on this ship.’
‘With all due respect, sir. I must answer to the immigration agent at the end of the voyage.’
‘Anyone can make a mistake, Doctor Roberts. And, if I remember correctly, this young man brought the incident to a close without intervention.’
‘It’s hardly a mistake to cause a riot.’
‘We all have secrets, Doctor Roberts. And he who protesteth the loudest is often the guiltiest.’
Hands behind his back, Captain Thompson walked the short, tense line of men, past Rhys with his pale face and wary shoulders, and Doctor Roberts with his gilt buttons and fiery accusations. Alf had the uncomfortable notion that the captain read his mind as he stood, cap in hand, submitting to his scrutiny. He came to a halt in front of Rhys.
‘The question is: will it happen again?’
Rhys didn’t answer. Only held his gaze.
‘Very well. We will leave it there for the time being. But I suggest you stick to legends in future, Mr Bevan, regardless of your messmates’ awkward questions. I will not take kindly to a repeat of last night’s performance.’
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