“Thank the good Lord,” Benjamin muttered as he clutched the armrest.
Finally settling her horse, Sibylla noticed a crane lifting a pallet with a half dozen sacks of coffee, and asked, “How long does it take for them to unload a ship?”
“Well, a great West Indiaman holds nearly five hundred tons, if not more. It takes four days at most to unload. When cargo traffic was still handled in the river, it used to take weeks.”
“Which would drive up the cost of the merchandise,” noted Sibylla. “Plus, there’s no protective wall along the Thames to keep away thieves.”
“Why, Miss Spencer, how extraordinary.”
She gave him another of her mocking looks. “So surprised, Mr. Hopkins? Am I to deduce that you think me incapable of such acumen?”
He laughed awkwardly. “You must admit that business is not the usual sort of thing to interest a young lady.”
“I daresay that you, Mr. Hopkins, have no idea what a young lady might be interested in,” she replied, looking at him with one eyebrow raised.
This time, Benjamin was unable to withstand her piercing gaze and turned swiftly away. “Oh, I see the Queen Charlotte up there! She arrived this morning and I have to check the cargo,” he tried to declare firmly, blushing when his voice cracked like a boy’s. “But first I shall take you to your father. Warehouse three is directly across and so you can leave your carriage here. I shall get one of the workers to mind it for you.”
Sibylla looked in the direction Benjamin was pointing and saw a splendid ship. Her two broad and massive quarterdecks, intricately carved and colorfully painted, towered over the harbor basin.
“What, no figurehead, no naked mermaid?” she asked, looking at Benjamin provocatively.
Again, he felt the perspiration starting to build under his shirt, but controlled himself. “If there is one, then it would be in the front at the bow. Shall we go and look?”
Instead of answering, she smiled, leaned back, and took in the sight of the three sky-high masts with their rigging pulled and their crow’s nests at dizzying heights. Suddenly, a stubbly man appeared next to them and barked, “Why don’t you do your gawking somewhere else? We’re trying to unload here!”
Sibylla clicked her tongue and urged her skittish horse on. This time, they stopped by the long, thin gangplank of the Queen Charlotte, which seemed taller the closer they got. Sibylla determined the ship to be no less than one hundred and fifty feet in length. She regarded its broad body, carved from dark wood, its sturdy and well-fortified appearance. The six cannon barrels pointing straight in Sibylla’s direction only enhanced this impression.
“That’s Nathaniel Brown up there. He’s the captain,” Benjamin said, pointing to a broad-shouldered man wearing the Spencer Company’s navy blue coat and a black bicorne over his brow.
Sibylla took a good look at the man. His features were harsh and weathered, betraying no emotion. He stood at the railing, watching intently as another net full of rum barrels hung in midair on its way from the Queen Charlotte to the pier.
Benjamin cleared his throat. “We should try to find your father. I’ll ask one of the men to mind your carriage for a mo—”
“Watch out!” Captain Brown shouted as he leaned over the railing. “Get away from there! Quickly!”
Chapter Two
Richard Spencer and two other gentlemen stepped out of warehouse three. One of them was the deputy chairman, second in command of the West India Dock Company. The other was an engineer whom Spencer had asked to check whether the warehouse needed any remodeling to ensure that the temperature and humidity required to store grain and leather, the two main imports from Morocco, were appropriate. When the screams began no more than twenty yards from him, Spencer at first paid them no heed. Shouting was commonplace at the docks. But then he squinted with irritation. What the devil was a little gig like that doing at the docks? It was the same kind of lady’s carriage his daughter drove!
“What in God’s name?”
Two workers were running toward the gig, screaming with all their might and gesturing upward.
Spencer cried desperately, “Sibylla! Look out!” He began to run, knowing it was too late.
At exactly that moment, Benjamin heard the net creak. What he saw took his breath away. The hoist of the crane hovered almost directly above them, and from its massive hook dangled a full net. It contained six barrels, each made to hold one hundred liters of rum and each as tall as a grown man’s hip. Suddenly, the net jolted and tilted dangerously to one side. Benjamin realized that at least two of the overly taut ropes had already snapped. He was gripped with fear.
“Let’s go!” he bellowed, leaning toward Sibylla and trying to wrest the reins from her. “Go!”
That’s when the top two barrels slipped from the net. They came down on the pavement directly next to the gig with a deafening crash. Wood splintered and rum splashed all over the pier. Sibylla cried out, the horse bolted, and Benjamin only just avoided being thrown out into the narrow space between the ship and pier. The gig flew up the gangway on one wheel and briefly became airborne before coming down hard and sliding over the pier wall. It was only the side of the Queen Charlotte that prevented carriage, horse, and passengers from landing in the harbor basin. Sibylla yanked on the reins and leaned all the way back. But the spooked mare fought her. The iron of the axle grated on the stone and caused sparks to fly as they careened along the quay wall. Sibylla again pulled on the reins, but by now they had left the ship’s wall behind and tipped closer to the harbor basin. As Benjamin lost his balance, Sibylla cried out and reached for him. The reins slipped from her hands, and Sibylla and Benjamin plunged headlong into the water.
The water was cold and painful as it swallowed Sibylla. Flailing toward the surface, she felt her right foot come in contact with something soft. Benjamin, perhaps? She was surrounded by slimy green water. She kicked vigorously, but her coat and ample petticoats threatened to drag her down. Her lungs ready to burst, she feared a pitiful death by drowning. Fear giving her strength, Sibylla kicked free of some of the heavy fabric and finally broke through the surface.
“Help!” she gasped. “Help! I can’t swim!”
Wet strands of hair covered her face and eyes. In her effort to move them aside, she again went under and began to swallow the fetid, brackish water. All of a sudden, someone was pulling her up by her hair. She emerged, gagging and spitting.
“Stop kicking, damn it!” she heard Benjamin’s voice. “Otherwise we’ll both drown.”
He had one hand under her chin to keep her above water and his other was moving them both toward the quay. He moved with excruciating slowness, hampered not only by her weight but that of his own soaked clothing. Yet Sibylla’s breathing became calmer. She could see papers from Benjamin’s folder, the ink running off in rivulets before going under. And over there was her hat, dancing in the swill. Green algae had managed to wrap itself around the brim like some malicious decoration. The figurehead of the Queen Charlotte seemed to be mocking her.
She heard excited voices above and made out her father and one of his terrified associates standing at the edge of the pier. And she also saw the petrified crane operator, a worker, and Captain Brown. A few sailors had been following the drama, hanging over the ship’s railing. One shouted, “That’s the newest way to catch mermaids!”
The insolent remark snapped the captain out of his shocked trance. “What the devil are you gawking at?” he bellowed. “Off with you, get to work! Go and scrub the decks! I want them clean enough to eat off!”
The smirking men slinked away.
Meanwhile, Benjamin had reached one of the many iron ladders along the quay wall and pushed Sibylla toward its rungs. She climbed as fast as her wet clothing would allow, reassured by the fact that Benjamin was right behind her. When she had reached the top, she felt indescribable relief at finally being on terra firma again.
Her father’s face was ashen as he took Sibylla in his arms and wrapped his
coat around her shoulders. “What on earth are you doing here, child?” he asked in disbelief.
“It was because of Oscar,” she whispered, feeling ridiculous. “I wanted to tell you about his match on Sunday.”
Richard looked at her incredulously for a moment. “That’s why you came to the harbor? Are you quite . . . ?”
Cognizant of the curious listeners all around, he did not complete the sentence. Yet his admonition stung. Even though she had mere moments ago been in serious danger of drowning, still her father wasted no time in finding fault.
Sibylla looked around and was relieved to see one of the workers caring for her mare, who had managed to avoid taking a plunge. Even the gig looked to be intact, if a bit scratched.
Benjamin joined them on the pier. Water dripped from his coat, there was algae clinging to his shirt collar, and those carefully polished shoes were ruined.
Spencer pressed Benjamin’s right hand. “You saved my daughter. I am deeply in your debt, Mr. Hopkins.”
Benjamin bowed. “Any gentleman would have done the same, sir,” he said, the cold of the harbor water making his teeth chatter.
Sibylla was unable to suppress a smile. “My heartfelt thanks to you as well, Mr. Hopkins.”
“Are you well, Miss Spencer? Do you need a doctor?”
She shook her head. “I am not hurt, thank you. I’m afraid I did hit the water rather hard, but it’s likely no more than a few bruises.” She sneezed.
“If all you get is a cold, you’ll be lucky, silly girl,” her father grunted. He waved over a dockworker and pressed a few coins into his hand. “Take two uniforms to warehouse three. Sibylla, you will have to be content wearing men’s garb until you get home.”
He placed his arm around his daughter and bade Benjamin to follow. “Come with us, Hopkins! We’ll find some sacks of coffee behind which you can dry yourselves and dress yourselves.”
“I’ll follow in just a moment, sir,” Benjamin said as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe some algae from his shoes.
“Some nets just tear at the right moment, hey, Hopkins?” he heard someone say behind him.
Benjamin looked over his shoulder and saw Nathanial Brown, captain of the Queen Charlotte, looking at him with his cold black eyes.
“What do you mean? Did you have something to do with this?” Benjamin instinctively stepped away.
“Quite a clever way to cover up our little business, don’t you think?”
Benjamin gasped. “You almost killed us, damn it!”
Nathaniel Brown smiled disdainfully. “Is it my fault that you turn up at the wrong moment with the owner’s daughter? If you’re smart, you’ll report to Spencer that all six of the barrels fell and were broken.”
“All six?” Benjamin looked at the crane. “But it was only—”
“Six, you idiot! Two plus the four we unloaded on the Thames earlier. Spencer will never notice. He was so preoccupied with his daughter that he never even looked at the nets.”
Benjamin looked around nervously. But Richard Spencer and his daughter had long since disappeared into the warehouse.
He and Brown had a long history of cheating the shipping company in petty ways. They’d make a few barrels of rum or sacks of sugar, or maybe a few sacks of tobacco or coffee, disappear while the ship was still on the river, and then sell the goods illegally. Benjamin would simply tell Spencer that the missing merchandise was rotten, damaged, or had gone overboard at sea.
“You’d better run along behind your master like a good spaniel, Hopkins.” Brown laughed. “Collect your reward.”
Benjamin shot him a look of annoyance, then headed for warehouse three.
“Who would have thought the two of us would go not only for a ride today but a swim as well?” Benjamin called a few minutes later, drying his hair behind a stack of brown sacks.
“This situation seems to amuse you to no end, Mr. Hopkins. I prefer to bathe at home in clean, warm water.” Sibylla’s head appeared from behind a wall of bulging burlap sacks labeled dos Santos—Café da melhor qualidade.
“So a dip in the harbor basin was not the little adventure you had hoped for?” Benjamin quipped, encouraged by her teasing tone.
Sibylla’s eyes roamed the large hall in search of her father. In vain. She began to examine Benjamin. His body, though concealed up to his waist by coffee, was bare. His shoulders were narrow, his skin pale, and his wet hair thin. His appearance in no way aroused in her the consuming desire experienced by the heroines of the romance novels she occasionally borrowed from her stepmother.
She sneezed again. “There is a draft in here,” she stated, turning away from Benjamin and stuffing her wet hair under the bowler hat a dockworker had brought her along with a striped flannel shirt; a pair of rough-textured, dark blue cotton pants; and an oversized pair of boots.
“The air has to circulate,” Benjamin explained, pointing to the louvered windows. “Light and warmth spoil coffee and destroy its aroma.”
Richard had taken them to the second floor of warehouse three and sent all of the workers outside. Having assured himself that his daughter and Benjamin were not changing clothes behind the same sacks of coffee, he had walked to the other end of the hall, which measured at least one hundred feet in width and twenty feet in depth, in order to inspect a new delivery.
Sibylla bent over to try to lace up the heavy boots. Benjamin, now dressed, stepped out from behind his stack. “It would be an honor for me to assist you, Miss Spencer.”
She hesitated at first, but then accepted his offer with a smile. “That’s very kind, thank you.”
He heaved a sack onto the floor for her to sit on, then kneeled before her. His fingers did not touch her as he got to work, and yet this action seemed much more intimate than earlier in the harbor basin, when he had held her above water.
“There is still some algae in your hair,” he said softly.
“Where?” she asked, just as softly.
“Here.” He reached up and pulled it from the strand of wet hair that had slipped out from under the hat.
“Ahem.” Richard was standing behind them.
Benjamin scrambled to his feet.
Richard looked his daughter over with a furrowed brow. “You look frightful! I will have the cover put up on the carriage for your ride home lest someone recognize you.”
But she did not look frightful to Benjamin at all. At first glance, she might have been mistaken for a man. Her soft features, however, betrayed her indisputable femininity. His heart began to beat faster as he rushed to help his boss into his coat.
All the rustling of papers and scratching of pens at the shipping company’s counting house came to a stop the moment Benjamin stepped over the threshold. Fifteen unabashedly curious pairs of eyes took in the sight of his peculiar getup.
Benjamin smiled. He’d always rather liked being the center of attention.
“What happened? Why are you dressed like that? Where is Miss Spencer?”
Benjamin stopped the questions with a wave of his hand. He relished keeping his coworkers in suspense and knew the tale of his adventure was sure to spread like wildfire anyway. This way, he’d appear a hero to his coworkers and the soul of discretion to the Spencers.
At last, Donovan, ever proper, admonished everyone to get back to work and leave Hopkins alone.
It was with some reluctance that the buyers and scribes, bookkeepers, and clerks finally returned to work.
The door to the counting house opened and Richard Spencer stuck his head in. “Hopkins, would you please come into my office for a minute? Donovan, have two cups of tea sent in.”
The boss’s office was a large square room. In front of the window stood a desk with an inkwell, pens, folders, and a gas-powered desk lamp, rather than one of the old oil lamps in the office next door. The boss also worked seated comfortably at his desk instead of standing like his clerks. The walls were lined with shelves filled with documents and scrolls of paper containing ship designs
and, on one wall, there was a cabinet, secured with three locks, in which money and important documents were kept. A simple rectangular table with four chairs stood in one corner.
From the workshops in the courtyard below, muffled voices, hammering, and sawing could be heard.
There was a knock. An apprentice entered, placed a tea tray on the table, poured the steaming brew, and was gone.
“Please, be seated,” said Spencer, motioning to the table. He was an imposing man, with his meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a corpulence bespeaking a fondness for fine food and wine. His eyes were clear and penetrating under their bushy brows.
Benjamin happily obeyed. This, after all, was the first time in thirteen years’ employment that he had been invited to tea with the boss.
Spencer stirred his tea several times, took a sip, and came straight to the point. “How many barrels did we lose today?”
“Six, sir,” Benjamin replied anxiously. But seeing Spencer nod, he ventured to add that the insurance company would surely compensate them for the loss.
“Excellent, Hopkins, excellent.” Spencer seemed well pleased. “Go ahead and add the four barrels we lost from the Unicorn last year. What are we paying such horrendous premiums to those cutthroats for, anyway?”
Benjamin nodded but wondered about the real reason he had been summoned. Had there been too many losses in recent months? But he was taken unawares by what Richard Spencer said next.
“My son is taking part in his first cricket match next Sunday.”
“Your daughter had mentioned it, sir.”
Spencer cleared his throat. “Ah. So you know. Very good. Then perhaps you will join us at St. John’s Wood on Sunday and cheer the boy on. I’m sure my daughter would be pleased to see you.”
“It would be my honor, Mr. Spencer!” Benjamin shot out of his chair to take a bow. “It would be a great honor to see your charming daughter again.”
Spencer emptied his cup. “That’s settled, then. See you on Sunday.”
The Lioness of Morocco Page 2