by Andy Love
The haar thickened on the coastline, and normal dock sounds muffled as night crept over Leith. The sea lapped against huge wooden brigs, which knocked against the dockside with the rhythm of a giant heartbeat.
The ship masts he could see were mummified in yard sails and nodded toward Customs House. When the guard stood beside the ship, he seen a plaque on the side, but couldn’t make out the letters.
Crates of all sizes were littered along the dock; some still wrapped in cargo nets. The fog created miasma to the night and dampened the usual smell of fish, brine and seaweed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two male figures stole their way through the darkness to a specific crate. The smaller of the two kept lookout; the other forced the wood apart, which yielded with a loud crack. The thieves didn’t anticipate the strength required to break into another person’s possessions.
The guard heard the disturbance at the water’s edge. ‘There shouldn’t be anyone here.’ He swung his baton in circles for comfort as he moved to investigate the noise. Hector neared the area where the noise emanated, but his shoes created a solid heavy disturbance on wooden dock. The thieves knew this sound meant trouble approached.
They glimpsed the glow from the guard's lantern in the distance as it bled through the fog. The men ran down the docks, dodged crates, barrels, capstans, and tripped over nets. Hector lumbered in pursuit of the soft pad of panicked feet on the dock. The sound faded quickly into the cold foggy night, and Hector stopped his chase.
After seven years, he still experienced uncomfortable sensations as his feet pounded the dockyard. He never entertained a sensation like this in all his 27 years as a Policeman. The new job brought a unique vexation. Here, he has to patrol a place, where anyone with a grain of common sense, would not want to be at night.
~~~~~~~~~~
Hector returned to inspect the loose and damaged slats on the crate. He fished around in his pocket, pulled out a notebook and pencil as he pondered what he might write in the report.
'Two criminals tried to…’
“I wonder what’s in the crate that’s so valuable?” He whispered.
He continued the imaginary report. 'Thieves stole everything from the crate on the West dock. ‘
“Yes, that sounds right.”
He pulled the slats apart, and knew it as an unlawful act, which sullied his grain of honesty.
The town clock rang out and jangled Hector’s nerves. Ten more tolls of the bell tensed his muscles and made him furtive. On the twelfth toll, two black shapes exploded the slats off the crate, and knocked him to the wet ground.
He looked around to confirm what he glimpsed, but the dock remained empty. The Guard wouldn’t report these observations, when he wasn’t sure what he viewed. The black shapes glided across the wetness of the wooden deck behind him, and up the side of a stack of crates. They came to rest on top, waited, and watched the man.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Guard looked around and at last, found his hat. He tried to stand up, but the weight of the long heavy coat dragged him back to the ground. Hector eventually returned to the crate and bent over to inspect the contents.
Sprigs of gorse bush and holly were pushed aside, which enabled him to see crude, human-like shapes…two large stones in a primitive human shape. The largest stone glistened with enticement, so Hector reached in and touched it. He rubbed the cold and slimy lichen between his fingertips.
The black mist undulated atop a pile of crates. It watched with interest as more of the sprigs were clawed back, which unveiled a rustic wooden staff, propped in the corner of the crate.
Stone contents failed to excite the Guard, and certainly not worth his trouble. He replaced the wooden slats best he could and shrugged his shoulders. The watchful presence made him wary, of what might lay in wait tonight.
‘Maybe the thieves have returned. They might wait for me to leave, or just cosh my head open to escape.’
A nervous night shift at the docks is normal, but the unknown made his flesh creep. As usual, he traipsed around the dock, and lit the few lamps there were. The whale blubber irritated him, when it wouldn’t ignite. His own lamp constantly bumped against his leg, so he raised it to waist height. The dim glow from the lantern encapsulated the guard in a ball of light. His hand shook and created a dull pool of light, which shimmered at his feet. The glow couldn’t penetrate the many darkened nooks and crannies of the oppressive docks.
He weaved past heaps of large fishing nets, and unconsciously listened to the sound his shoes made on wet dock. The left one always gave a small, intermittent squeak. He sometimes thought the shoe allied with the vagabonds. It would be more audible when Hector crept up on thieves. The Guard stopped at the edge of the dock and realised how the noise of life reduced in Leith. The night grew old, quiet…cold.
Schooners yawed in the brine and their ropes clanked with normal monotony. When a noise happened it pulled at the guard’s nerves and intensified his sense of dread. He tried to abate his insecurity with a cheerful whistle, but his mouth dried up. The dry attempt at appeasement created a discordant noise, and the echoed shrillness inflated his unease. The guard nervously licked dry lips and headed for the warehouses.
~~~~~~~~~~
His baton dragged across the warehouse wall. It made two notes as it passed between mortar and stone. The dull scrapes filled the air, and were accompanied by the strange squeak from his shoe as he deduced.
‘If I make enough noise, anyone nearby would flee and my job will be easier, safer.’
A distraction caught his peripheral vision, so he moved toward the south side of the dock. Hector suspended his step, when a shadow crept across the dim light. It moved across the emptiness of Dock Street, to the side of Customs House. He blinked as black shapes weaved rapidly toward the East end of the dock. Paused in step, he pondered pursuit.
‘I should investigate, but shadows aren’t part of my job. A human’s solid, it’s something I can clobber.
I can arrest and handcuff a real intruder, but what would I do with a shadow? Maybe it’s the shadow of a beggar or thief.
After all, a shadow must be made by something real, shouldn’t it?’
To cease his laggard thoughts, he decided to investigate. The guard trudged up the road toward a pyramid of barrels, and heard voices as he approached. He peered into the blackened crevices to find the source.
The Old Black Bull Inn spew drunken men and whores into the streets of Leith. Male voices also shouted in argument outside the docks, but he took comfort behind the huge stone warehouses, concealed. The guard revelled in the sanctum’s strength, of its colossal and protective wrought iron gates.
~~~~~~~~~~
The clock tower chimed out one o’clock, it reminded him to help with the transfer of prisoners through the docks. Those sentenced to transportation would be taken from Calton Hill jail, escorted to the dock by prison guards and two policemen. They would be boarded upon Ocean, a smack ship in the docks. The unfortunates would have been ripped from their roots and sail to the Australian colonies, never to return to their beloved Alba.
It took him at least ten minutes to reach the main entrance. As he approached, two policemen rattled the metal gates violently. Hector overheard the disgruntled complaints as they voiced displeasure at the wait.
“We have to stand in the cold, and wait for a stupid dock guard to attend. They can’t be trusted to be on time.”
“Aye, you’re right there,” agreed the young policeman. “They just don’t have the discipline of us police.”
He deliberately approached the entrance with a slovenly gait. “Evening gentlemen, more prisoners for the journey of a lifetime?”
The smaller of the policemen banged on the metal gate again. “Never you mind our business. You’re late, get these gates open, now.”
The guard looked behind the policemen and counted five Hackney coaches, with cloaked drivers. Steam rose from the huge Clydesdale horses, which drew the coaches. Their overworked
bodies were glad of a rest as limp tongues dangled from their bits and their lungs rasped. As he opened the last heavy gate, the large policeman pushed him.
“Get out of my way. We’ve not got all night to wait on you.”
He stumbled backward and the burly policeman shoved the gate open with one solid push. It clattered against the wall and rang with vibration on its hinges. The smaller of the policemen signalled to the coach drivers with a wave of his arm.
Whips cracked above the horse’s heads, and frightened them forward. The Clydesdales struggled to continue the last section of their journey. They heaved slowly, and strained to move the weight of condemned bodies in the black wooden prisons. The horses gained momentum and strained toward the smack ship.
The smallest, and youngest of the policeman approached as the coaches passed.
“You bring up the rear, and follow us to the ship.”
“Aye, is that right, Son. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been shitting solids.”
The policeman shoved the guard toward the back of the coaches, but Hector stood fast. The young man realised, although the guard to be older, he remained a brawny and adroit man.
“You just do as you’re told…”
Hector moved close to the policeman’s face and whispered.
“Look Laddie, don’t fuck with me. I’ll slit your throat any night, and leave you to bleed.”
The youngster paused in thought, motioned to the back of the coaches, and flashed a smile.
“If you please, Sir.”
“My pleasure.” Hector answered, with a face devoid of emotion.
A sorrowful sight of thirty or so men and women were chained, manacled together like animals. They shuffled up the gangway with their clinks and clanks, to be incarcerated in the depths of the ship. They would fester in their own filth for their sins, until they reached Australia. Hector helped the prison guards escort them onto the huge smack ship as the policemen supervised. All prisoners on board, everyone departed the docks.
~~~~~~~~~~
Hector relocated to the dry East dock and gazed at the name plaque Ocean as it eased through the harbour. Its bell tolled, and the high tide dragged it passed the lighthouse. The ships name became unreadable, as the white-sider faded into the haar.
He remained at the East dry dock, the lighthouse barely visible to his left. The fog in front of him dissipated slightly, which allowed him to make out the long curvature of the pier and view Leith Sands.
~~~~~~~~~~
He remembered the good times, when Liz and he were happy. Four years ago, about eleven on a crisp January morning, with friends and a count of over 40’000 other people who came to watch pirates hang. Good hangings were always joyous days.
The memory of the day replayed like an old film in his head. Everyone smiled and huddled against the cold to see the entertainment; a deathly event of immense satisfaction with pompous grandeur. A huge crowd strained to see the procession appear at the foot of Leith Walk. The parade had length, with too many guards for two people: A detachment of Cavalry appeared to the crowd first, followed by a large party of Police. The Magistracy and their attendants arrived and were accompanied by a detachment of the third Dragoon Guards.
City Officers with halberds, walked in front of three carriages. In the first, were four Bailies of the city in their robes, white gloves and staves.
The second contained two gentlemen in attendance upon the Magistrates, the Reverend Wallace and a Roman Catholic Clergyman. In the third carriage were the Reverend John Campbell, a Minister of the City, and the current Chaplain of Calton jail, Reverent James Porteus.
A cart with a seat on the upper end, which the criminals sat on, brought the procession up at the rear. A party of the Police and Dragoon Guards also surrounded the cart.
They erected a platform on the sands, about 50 yards North West of the Naval Yard, guarded by more soldiers. At the bottom of Leith Walk, the Admiral and resident Magistrates of Leith merged into the procession, immediately after the City Magistrates carriage.
The gibbet stood proudly at high tide mark, and the chains dangled expectantly. Majority of the hoard cheered as the prisoners were driven slowly, down to the edge of the beach. Others sang psalms and held up protest signs with quotes from the bible. The pirates were pulled from the cart, marched across the sand and up to the gallows.
Upon the concluded psalm, Dr Campbell addressed the spectators with impressive emotion, as he prayed for the solemn and melancholy occasion.
The first pirate, Heaman came forward, dressed in a brown jacket and white trousers. He bowed to all around him, fell to his knees in exculpation and uttered words of pity.
A short time after Dr Campbell concluded his prayers, the second pirate, Gautiez huddled down in a brown coat. He talked with a clergyman, who attended him in acts of devotion.
~~~~~~~~~~
The magistrate unfurled a scroll and awaited silence in the crowd.
“On this Thursday, January the 10th, in the year 1822. These two unfortunate men named Peter Heaman, an Englishman and Francois Gautiez, a foreigner; have been found guilty of piracy and murder.
They are despicable animals, pirates who stole and murdered without remorse. The condemned shall be hanged beyond dead, here on Leith Sands. Their bodies will be conveyed, under an escort of Dragoons to Dr. Munro's classroom, for dissection. These deaths, will serve to add reproach and ignominy, to all who follow in their path.”
The condemned men shook hands with the Magistrates and Clergyman around them. The pirates mounted the fatal gallows, and Heaman prayed aloud for some time.
"…Lord Jesus, perceive my soul." He shook hands with Gautiez, as the great bell of South Leith Church tolled. The executioner held up the chains to bind and the crowd roared. He cocooned the pirates in chains and fixed the nooses tightly around their necks. The huge crowd chanted their expectations of a perfect day out.
“Hang ‘em slow, hang ‘em high, hang ‘em till they die!”
‘The roar from crowd almost deafened us, even over our own chants.’
The chants grew in volume and seemed to apex as the plinth released. The pirates bodies dropped sharply, one followed another. A flock of seagulls squawked over the hush on Leith Sands. After the bodies stopped their throws of death, the crowd cheered again.
‘At our position near the gibbet, we saw their eyes fill with blood and tongues stick out. We were close enough to smell the mess from the bottom half of their bodies and the drips from their feet.’
Later in the day, children danced around the scaffold. They pointed and laughed at the funny gargoyle faces the dead bodies had made. Others swung from the dead men’s feet. Yes, a glorious and happy day for all. Liz and I were still in love.
~~~~~~~~~~
The old guard passed two dry docks near the North bastion. He heard a drunk sing, but knew noises on the dock sounded close by. They drifted in from Leith town. The sounds bounced between Citadel Green and the dock warehouses, before they leaked through the gates. This caused a person to misunderstand the origin of direction, so he discarded the sound.
He turned to the West drawbridge, but heard the sound again. Hector looked to the large gaff sails on his left and peered through the mist. He made out the shape of a man, stagger over the ship’s deck. A few steps closer, he realised the sailor wore a dark coloured top and an old top hat. The sailor slurred a shanty as he hobbled to the bow of the ship.
“Hey you,” Hector shouted. “You on the ship. You’re not meant to be here.”
The sailor seemed oblivious to the stranger, and continued his drunken song. Annoyed at the ignorance of the sailor, he dodged through a mound of barrels, reached the gangway of the ship, and decided to beat some manners into this drunk.
The shanty stopped and the sailor eluded the confused guard. Holding tightly on the gangway rope, and tilted his head to better view the ship’s deck, he walked to the top of the gangway and paused. He scanned the deck, but found a peaceful
ship. The collar of his coat dug into the back of his neck as he took a few steps back down the gangway. The mumbled song nettled his patience again, but fainter this time.
He trundled up to, and along the deck. The garbled sea shanty and footsteps swelled behind him. He immediately turned to see the white trousers of a drunken sailor’s. The image shimmered toward him and the gnarled features became clearer with each step. Hector didn’t know what to do, so readied his baton for defence.
“Hoy you, stop where you are!” The man ignored him again and staggered closer. Hector raised his baton, and intended to stop the man with a swift crack on the head. The sailor came close enough for the guard to see a lucid form, with the solidity of a jellyfish. His neck expanded as fear-induced adrenaline raged through his veins. He swung the baton, but it passed through the figure without hesitation. The liquid-like image didn’t miss a lyric, or stop the tune as it passed through the guard. Shivers ran through him, and a sticky cold sweat covered his skin as he yelped with fear.
An unclean wetness lingered over his hairs. His bones were violated deep into their marrow. The guard held back the urge to puke his breakfast. He turned to see the ghost, sing his sea shanty and fade into the haar.
A black mist floated nearby, and laughed at the guard’s primitive confusion of the spirit world. Hector continued to swivel his head as he searched for the origin of laughter.
The mist becalmed, silent and curious. It whispered in varied and rapid tones. Voices of an ancient language, before the speech slowed to understandable words.
“This human listens. It will hear the plight of our world, where few have. Protect it, we must.”
This would be another escapade, which wouldn’t show on the Leith Dock Commission guard’s report. He continued his beat, and retained a little anger-induced embarrassment.
~~~~~~~~~~
Hector walked between the West warehouse and wet dock. He listened to the restored silence, until snarls and grunts emanated from a partially enclosed tower of crates.