The Captain

by Lynn Collum

  Minutes later the captain stepped into the street and looked in both directions, his mind too full of worries to think clearly. It was only a little after six o’clock, but the summer sun had sunk behind the buildings, leaving Oxford Road in growing shadows. The people passing by him on the streets hurried to get to the safety of their homes before dark. Like most seaport towns, London was a dangerous place after the sun went down, especially near the poorer sections like the waterfront.

  Drew pulled out his watch and realized he was late to meet friends from Calcutta. They were probably already at the Three Cranes Tavern on the Thames. Unfamiliar with the large city, he hailed a hackney. His mind filled with thoughts of his father, he took little note of the grandeurs of London. He wasn’t fool enough to take all the blame on his shoulders for his father’s frailties, but Drew knew that he’d contributed to the baron’s suffering by not performing his familial duty. Life on his own had taught him that besides friendship, the only sentiment that was real was the bond between parent and child.

  As expected, his business partners awaited him at the inn. Captain Nate Robertson and Captain Harry Lyons, like Drew, had gone to India with dreams of riches. They’d met six years earlier in a waterfront tavern in Calcutta and formed a lasting friendship. The trio had found the path to what they sought by sailing the dangerous China routes on leaky old frigates belonging to others. Unlike most of their compatriots, who’d arrived in India from the slums of London or by family tradition, these three young men were from well placed families. Each had his own reasons to take to the seas. Later, they’d pooled their funds and purchased a small ship, which Nate, the eldest and most experienced, had captained while Harry and Drew continued to work for others. Within a year, the Lucky Dragon had made three very successful trips to the China coast and two more ships, the Flying Dragon and the Golden Dragon, were added to the fleet and the China Dragon Trading Company was born. It had proven a major success.

  Nate and Harry asked no questions as to why Drew was late. They knew he had personal business in London that involved his father. In time he would tell them about his meeting if there was something they needed to know. The trio of friends dined and discussed shipping business but Drew had difficulty concentrating on matters at hand. At nine o’clock, he called it a night. His friends encouraged him to summon a hackney, but Drew refused. He wanted to walk along the wharf back to the Flying Dragon, hoping the stroll would help him sort out his plans. He owed a responsibility to the Morrow name, but there was an equal debt to his friends and business partners. He couldn’t simply walk away and leave them in the lurch.

  The summer night was unusually warm. A low coal haze from cooking fires hung over the river, giving the dying twilight a purple hue. He strolled along, paying little heed to the women on the game who called to him to sample their well-exposed wares. Burly sailors hurried past him on their way home or to the local taverns after their long voyages.

  His thoughts dwelled on what it would be like meeting his father again. Theirs had never been a close relationship, but Drew knew he was as much to blame for that as his father. He’d been rather wild back then, his father often gone to London. He’d given little thought to anything but what he wanted. Did his father blame him for all that had befallen Rowland Park since?

  Still, had Drew stayed and married that sickly child, would it have made a difference? The image came to him of what it would be like had he not gone off to seek his fortune: he would be five-and-twenty, fully dependent on his father and about to wed Miss Blanchett. Very likely he would have become one of those reckless young men who littered the English countryside with little to fill their days but mischief. The very thought was untenable.

  Drew stopped at a bend in the river where he could see the Flying Dragon’s stern in the distance. Lanterns had been lit by the night watch, the sails were furled, and the red flag with a black dragon swayed gently in the soft breeze at the rear. A sense of pride filled him. It hadn’t merely been hard work that had gotten him his own ship, but determination and an innate ability to master the seas, as well as the good fortune to meet allies with a common goal. He was younger than most captains but his men trusted him and knew him to be fair and just.

  In that instant he came to a decision. While he took care of matters at home, he’d have his first mate, Cedric Bradley, arrange a cargo for a local trip, perhaps to France or Dublin. That way—

  Drew froze when a footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, his head exploded in a burst of pain and his world went black.

  A ship’s bell pierced the night air on the Deptford docks as two figures separated from the shadows and slipped along the newly built wharf. The pungent smell of briny muck and dead fish hung in the air, a sign that the tide was at low ebb. In the night sky a silver moon hung low above the horizon and glowed a bright orange through the evening haze. The intrepid pair paid no attention to the sights and smells that were so familiar.

  Ben Trudeau, along with his friend, Gilbert Sprat, had business. They were in search of the masthead of the White Heron. It had sailed into harbor two weeks earlier but, like most inbound vessels, it was forced to sit at harbor waiting for a turn at the docks. London was one of the busiest ports in the world, especially now that the war with France had ended.

  In the dark all the vessels looked alike to the two young men. “We ain’t never goin’ to find ’er in that forest of masts out there.” Gilbert sniffled—a remnant of the cold that had laid him low for the last week. He leaned forward to peer at the name painted on the nearest ship, as if he could read. What he really looked for was a great white bird with wings that protruded from the carved masthead. This design was unique in a time when most merchant ships sported beautiful carved maidens at their bows.

  While the boys stood at the water’s edge, a door to the Flying Fish Tavern opened some twenty yards down the way, spilling yellow light onto the cobblestone street. Several men stepped out into the night, their voices quarrelsome, their words indistinct.

  Ben grabbed his friend’s shirt sleeve and pulled him down behind some crates. “Hide, Gilby, it’s the Gangers.”

  Young Sprat didn’t argue. He’d had a close call some six months earlier with a Press Gang up near the Tower. He’d heard the news that very afternoon that the Gangers were working the docks to replenish the HMS Buckley’s crew, and the last thing the boy wanted was to spend the next twenty years sailing with His Majesty’s fleet.

  Gilbert rubbed his grimy sleeve under his nose as a sneeze threatened. Ben’s eyes widened in fear that they would be discovered as the sound of footsteps grew close. He covered his friend’s mouth with his hand and waited, hoping the Pressmen wouldn’t hear. The fact that the boys had no nautical skills didn’t matter. The captains of the fleet weren’t so choosy when they found a young lad they thought trainable.

  Within minutes, the burly Gangers dragged a protesting sailor past the crates. The captured seaman begged for his freedom, but the men paid him no heed. One of the Impressment men protested the poor pickings that evening. “We needs to move back to the East India Docks or the London Docks. Them tars ain’t so slippery, Porter. We done good up there.”

  Porter’s voice echoed loudly over the open water. “Aye, we’ll go after we hand this one over to Wimberly, if he ain’t drunk a’ready.”

  The men had scarcely passed when Gilbert sneezed, but fortunately it came out sounding like the squeak of a mouse. The footsteps faded and the area fell silent. Gilbert tugged at his friend’s worn coat. “Let’s go, Ben. I’m thinkin’ we ain’t goin’ to be doin’ no mudlarkin’ tonight.”

  At twelve, Ben was three years younger than his friend, but his sharp wit and ability to read had set him apart from the other lads in the rundown tenement house where he and Jacinda let rooms. He leaned around the crate and looked in both directions. “Ain’t nothin’ to fear. They’re headin’ back to the Rendezvous.” He referred to the place where the Impressment Service ran their operation at St. Kat
herine’s by the Tower.

  Gilbert took no comfort that the men were returning to where they kept their victims until they were transported to the navy. “It’s early, them bully lads might come back if they ain’t got their lot.”

  “Don’t worry so, Gil. There’s plenty of places to hide. Besides, Timmons is expectin’ us to be at the drop and he don’t take kindly to lads what don’t do as they ought. Don’t dawdle. I want to be back home before Jack returns. You know I’m not to be out this late.”

  Ben pulled his friend up and they hurried along the wharf. A quarter mile further down they found the masthead they sought—the wooden bird in flight. Without a word, Ben tapped his friend and gestured at the White Heron, grinning. The two lads headed to the ladder, which led to the muddy banks exposed by low tide. Gilbert was on the first rung down when two men darted from the shadows.

  “Run, Ben!” Gilbert shouted, then jumped backward into the black void. The last thing he saw as he plummeted was a large cudgel aimed at his friend’s head. He landed in deep mud and rolled toward the water in an attempt not to bog down. He’d been a mudlark, as they dubbed the lads who waded into the Thames to catch illicit booty from their accomplices onboard the ships, since he was eleven. He’d learned the hard way how unforgiving the slimy sediment along the banks was on a body.

  Muddy, Gilbert struggled to his feet. He dashed west along the riverbank, his feet slipping every few steps. He heard the sound of pursuing footsteps on the wharf above him. Fear only drove him to run harder.

  Gilbert sprinted until he almost dropped. His lungs hurt so much he feared they would burst, and the urge to cough nearly overcame him. At last, he could go no further. Gasping, he pressed his thin body against the damp pylons that lined the wharf and listened. The only sound was the pounding of blood in his ears. He’d escaped but the Gangers had Ben.

  A strangled cry surged from him. He’d heard the stories from old pressed sailors who’d survived their ordeal. They were only too willing to spin tales of the harsh life at sea: years of imprisonment on a ship, bad food, and the lash. Gilbert wouldn’t let that happen to his friend. There was only one thing he could do. After a cautious look about, he slipped along in the shadows another twenty yards west before he recognized the Wapping New Stairs. In his fear he’d run directly toward the Rendezvous. His flight had also brought him closer to home. The stairs would return him to the docks. He climbed cautiously, listening for any sound that would alert him. He made it to the top unmolested, then looked left and right.

  The River Thames Police office was on the corner, but all seemed to be quiet. He raced across the wharf and disappeared into a narrow alley that would take him to Ratcliffe Highway and to Jack.

  Jacinda pulled the handle of the ink press across the paper, then lifted the handbill and looked at the image. The words announcing the hiring of a crew for the India Princess had printed without a smudge. “There’s the last one, Mr. Skirven.”

  The printer peered over the top of his glasses from his desk at the rear of the dimly lit print shop. He was a thin man with hollowed cheeks and a fringe of brown hair just above his ears. The oil lamp on the desk cast a ghostly white glow to his face, making him look quite terrifying, but in truth he was a kind old man who’d given Jacinda a job with few questions about how a “lad” from the slums was so well read. “You’re certain. Did you double check the count? I don’t want the first mate of the Princess to come in here and try to wriggle out of payin’. A hundred exact.”

  “Exactly, sir. There’s not a smudged page in the lot either.” Jacinda’s arms ached from pulling the press lever all day long, but she knew Mr. Skirven needed the business and she had stayed the two hours extra that it had taken.

  The clock over the fire grate showed it was half past ten. She prayed that Ben hadn’t been worried, or worse, gone out to roam the streets after finishing his work at Bixley’s Warehouse, where he fed and watered the horses that pulled wagon loads of goods away from the wharves. Wapping was a major shipping area where the London Docks had been recently rebuilt, greatly increasing the number of ships. Sailors were a rough lot and were generally the only people on the streets after dark.

  The old printer stood up, pushed the glassed up on his nose and smiled, “Then you best be headin’ home, lad. It’s late. I won’t be needin’ you for the next few weeks. I’m goin’ to the country to visit my mother.”

  Jacinda’s heart plummeted. Their funds were low. She would have to look for work elsewhere. She picked up the canvas bag she’d brought with her meal and hung the strap over her shoulder. She bid her employer goodnight, then stepped into the alley near Shadwell.

  Despite her male attire, Jacinda knew that danger lurked on those dark streets. She hurried toward Ratcliffe Highway. The June heat had driven many residents out onto the streets that evening. Many of the shops had remained open late. Business had been good since the Treaty of Toulouse. Ships from the continent were again frequenting the harbor.

  Tall for a female, Jacinda had no difficulty passing as a young man once she bound her bosom with muslin. She appeared to the world as a thin lad in her coarse spun green waistcoat, tan breeches, and nankeen jacket. Her sandy blond hair, cut short about her ears, was curly. She often kept it covered with a wide-brimmed hat that cast her face in shadows even on a sunny day. Tonight, she kept her head down to avoid eye contact with the sailors, watermen, and rat-catchers still going about their business in the streets. In truth, there was little about her to attract undue attention, but on the rough streets of Wapping, her slender frame would intimate no one.

  Her willowy build was deceiving. Jacinda had grown strong with the various jobs she’d performed over the years. She’d insisted that she do her part to help earn money after the funds from her father’s jewelry had been spent. It was strange, but in all the years she’d been in London, she’d never gone hungry or been without a roof over her head. Those few items Trudy had taken that night had gone a long way to keeping them fed the first few years. Johnny Trudeau had made up the difference when their money had run low. That is, when he had been in Town. Despite Trudy’s objection, he’d continued to ride the Pike to supplement their income. Unfortunately he’d ridden off two years ago and never returned. It was a subject that she and Ben had avoided discussing, but Jacinda, deep in her heart, suspected that the highwayman had met with a musket ball on some lonely road in the north. It was doubtful they would ever know for sure.

  In the eight long years since she’d left home, the only time Jacinda had ever considered returning to Chettwood was the winter Trudy had died of the ague. Only fifteen and uncertain about continuing to live apart from her family without Nurse, Jacinda had packed her bags and thought to go to her Uncle Matthew’s house in Soho. But Johnny begged her to stay. By then, his wife had left him with their son, Ben, and he needed her to help him raise the boy. She’d agreed to stay, knowing that it still wasn’t safe for her to return since her father’s murderer had never been brought to justice.

  She dutifully wrote a letter a year to her father’s solicitor, but had never told him her whereabouts for fear that he would supercede her father’s wishes and force her to return to Chettwood. Unfortunately, this secrecy meant he had no way to send her funds, even had he agreed to do so, which she doubted he would.

  After Trudy’s death, Johnny never cosseted Jacinda. For the first time she had had a chance to see something of how the lower classes live. Working odd jobs wasn’t easy, but she much preferred the experience to the life she would have led had she remained in Millicent Markham’s care. Her cousin had treated her like a fragile piece of china, and she had been cloistered in her room much of the time. Still, there was a part of her that was curious about those she’d left behind. What had it been like at the manor without her or her father? There was little doubt Millie would run things efficiently, thinking it her duty. At present Jacinda felt no real desire to go back, knowing someone there wished to do her harm. But one day she would return to be
mistress of her own life and Chettwood Manor. For now, however, Ben needed her.

  As she drew near the tenement house where she and Ben kept rooms, she could see the front door was open. Lili Le Beau, their neighbor, was seated on a small barrel on the stoop, fanning herself and talking with passersby, mostly the sailors. The buxom woman spotted Jacinda, and waved. “You’re late, Jack, my boy.”

  A smile tipped Jacinda’s mouth. Lili was a former actress without a company. The large woman well knew that “Jack” was, in fact, female. She had befriended Ben and Jacinda, taking them under her wing within a month of their arrival at the rooming house ... and a rather large wing it was. Big boned and tall, Lili had a decided fondness for sweets and gin, a rather odd combination in Jacinda’s opinion, but the only thing that would make the former thespian pass on a glass of spirits was marzipan, macaroons, or sticky buns. It was a weakness that had led to the ruination of her once neat figure. Despite that, she might have kept a position in one of the touring companies, but when she drank, she became a handful. Too often she got into fights with the other performers while in her cups. The sad truth was that she was as handy with her fives as some of the bear garden bruisers, and on a bad night she could leave many a black-eyed actor or actress in her wake. Her pugilistic prowess and not her ample proportions had ended her career of treading the boards.

  At five-and-thirty, with her still-pretty face, she’d settled into a room off Brett Street in Wapping and did laundry and darning for sailors, shipbuilders, stevedores, and watermen. And when the occasional seafarer stayed overnight, none of the neighbors complained to the church warden, for Lili was as generous as she was large. Many a night she had a simple meal prepared when Jacinda came home late from one of her jobs, and Ben would be already fed and in bed.

  Jacinda stopped to answer the woman’s query about her late return. “There was extra work and I couldn’t leave. Is Ben upstairs?” She put one foot on the stoop and waited while Lili called a greeting to the old watchman, George Olney, as he made his rounds and called the hour. Jacinda thought she detected the scent of gin on the wind and eyed Lili closely, but clearly the woman wasn’t into her cups just yet, for there was no hint of the demon that would appear after a full bottle.