by Iris Cole
Rubbing her arms to try and maintain some of the fireside heat, she re-emerged feeling more like a human being, and less like a slab of raw meat that had been tenderised to the point of decimation.
Pausing at the basin of fresh water, she grabbed a metal jug and rammed it into the disc of ice that had formed across the top. Dispersing the floes, she cupped her hands and splashed her face with the bitterly cold water, feeling it bring some vitality back to her weary skin and feverish cheeks.
More awake now, she hurried around the one-room lodgings, stuffing her belongings back into the still-damp carpetbag.
All the while, she ducked and weaved around the slick-feathered pigeons that roosted in the rafters, fearing they might relieve themselves on her as she passed underneath. There were plenty of splotched droppings all over the floor to suggest that this room was as much their outhouse as it was a person’s rented bedchamber.
“You don’t need to take all that,” Bill reminded her. “I said you can stay here for as long as you need… Well, until the month is up.”
Clary put her cloak around her and shouldered the carpetbag. “I’d rather have it all with me.”
After all, you might be lying. She did not know why he would lie about such a thing, but she could not take the risk that she would return here to find someone else sleeping by the fire.
Bill gave a shrug and headed for the door, with Clary following after him. Walking out along a rickety landing and down two sets of equally suspect stairs, they reached the nipping bite of the morning air.
Beyond, the Southwark street lay empty, with a few grim souls hunched in doorways. In the dark of pre-dawn, Clary could not tell if they were sleeping or if they had passed on to the hereafter, nor did she have the courage to check.
Though at least she could tell that the drunkard who had fallen asleep in the middle of the road was still alive, for he was snoring like a locomotive. She noticed his pockets had been turned out, and felt a touch sorry for him, as he would have a nasty surprise when he awoke.
Unless the thief needed the coin more than this man, who clearly spends a great deal of it upon drink.
Here in London, the lines between right and wrong could become very blurry when it came to survival, though there was never an excuse for what had befallen her yesterday. That was nothing but the evil seed in this widespread tree of a city, where the roots of every street could prosper or die, based upon the wealth and nourishment of those who resided there.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As the glittering stars faded and gave way to the purple hue of proper dawn, Clary and Bill arrived at the docks, though they were far from alone.
Sailors, stevedores, labourers, day workers, and everything in between milled about on the wharves, going about their morning business. Meanwhile, moored in the water, vast ships floated patiently as they were loaded and unloaded with cargo, while other ships had no activity surrounding them whatsoever.
“Aren’t the captains afraid someone might steal their ship?” Clary asked, eyeing a dark vessel that appeared to have no-one aboard.
Bill shook his head. “That’s what the Marine Police Force are for. They keep watch over the ‘Pool,’ so no-one takes aught.” He gestured further down the shoreline. “Over there’s the Execution Dock, where pirates and the like get hung for trying their luck. Serves as a warning to most who are wise enough to listen.”
“The ‘Pool’?” Clary did not know anything about the docks, though it unnerved her to think there was a gallows so close to where she was standing.
Bill nodded. “It just means everywhere ships are harboured, all the way along the London stretch of the Thames.” He waved to an older fellow who was perched upon the curve of a disused anchor, eating what appeared to be his breakfast. “That’s one of my old shipmates, Rufford—he’ll be able to read that coin for you, if there’s anything to be read.”
Together, they walked over to the weathered older man, who seemed to have a perpetual squint from so many years staring into the glare of the sunlit seas. He gave the pair a nod as they approached.
“Long time no see, Whitley,” said Rufford, in a voice so gravelly that Clary had a hard time understanding him. “Are ye out on the morning tide, eh?”
Bill nodded. “I am. Captain Wilks got us a run to the Americas, by way of Manchester. Shipment of cotton, I’d wager.”
“It’s all cotton these days,” Rufford grumbled. “This yer wife then, eh? I didn’t know ye’d got yerself married.” He eyed Clary’s bruised face and his lips pursed, evidently believing that Bill himself might have been the cause. Even so, he did not say a word. It was not the done thing to speak of another man’s business.
Bill laughed awkwardly. “No, she’s not my wife. I only met her yesterday—saved her from some ruffians up Blackfriars way.”
Rufford’s expression seemed to relax. “Ah, well that explains the face. I don’t like to see a lass with bruises. T’aint right. At least ye were there to help her, eh?”
“Just doing my duty, Rufford.” Bill held out his hand for Clary’s coin, which she promptly put into his palm. “Anyway, there’s something we were hoping you could help us with. Clary here got left at the Foundling Hospital, and this is the only thing she has of the family who left her there. There are initials on it—F.C.—but there are some markings on the back, too—fair faded, now. I was hoping you’d know what they mean, if you can make them out?”
Rufford reached for the coin, making Clary’s heart lurch into her throat. She did not even like Bill holding the beloved object, but if it could help her find her father, or someone who knew where she had hailed from, she supposed she could swallow her fears.
The old man took out a box of matches and struck one, bringing the flame close to the copper coin until the metal shone as though it were ablaze from the inside. His crinkled eyes crinkled further, until they looked almost closed, as he observed the barely perceptible etchings on the smooth reverse of the coin.
Please… please say there is something on there that I couldn’t see. Please, don’t let this be where my search ends.
Clary watched Rufford for what felt like an eternity, as he turned the coin this way and that, going through three more matches before he finally spoke.
“Surname is Cross, or Crossley, or something with a “Cross” in it,” he said. “Looks like he sailed under Captain Eastleigh and Captain Morecroft, but they don’t sail no more. Eastleigh’s ship went down ten year ago, and Morecroft is retired—the old goat.”
Clary’s heart and hopes sank, as though she had run aground on rocks and had the hull ripped out from under her, leaving her to flounder in unfamiliar waters.
“O’ course, Captain Dunbar still sails. He’s the last on the list here,” Rufford added, prompting Clary’s head to snap up. “See, we had us a code back then, that we don’t use no more. Each Captain had himself a symbol assigned. This star at the bottom is Dunbar. Still is, though only us old fellas still make the markings on us coins.”
“Where is his ship?” Clary blurted out, her eyes scouring the wharves as though it might suddenly make itself known to her.
Rufford gave a throaty chuckle. “He don’t bother sailing down here no more, lass. Like I say, everything’s cotton these days. He sails in and out of Manchester, so you might try yer luck there if you can get up north.” He paused. “Who’s this “Cross” fella, then? He owe ye money or something?”
“I think he’s my pa,” Clary replied, her heart swelling with optimism.
Rufford frowned, adding fresh runnels to his creased forehead. “Well, if he sailed with Dunbar, that means he did the America voyage a fair few times. They’re treacherous waters, lass, even for those what’ve done it a thousand times.” He offered the coin back to her. “I’m not saying yer pa met himself a watery grave, but ye should brace yerself for bad news. If a sailor goes missing, he usually don’t get found. That sea out there might look pretty, but it’s a graveyard right enough.”
“
Thank you,” was all Clary said as she turned around and hurried away from the wharf, wondering if the money left in her soiled apron would be enough to purchase passage up to Manchester, either by land or sea.
She was so fixated with her own thoughts that she had almost forgotten about Bill, until he appeared in front of her, sticking out his arms to block her path.
“Where are you going, Clary?” he panted, having run to catch up to her.
She flashed him a smile. “To Manchester, to find this Captain Dunbar and discover what he knows of my father. I have a destination, I have part of a name, and I will not allow this to escape me again. I will find someone who knows of me. I will not stop until I do.”
“I’m not asking you to.” He took a step toward her. “But you told me yourself, you don’t have much in the way of coin. Don’t be wasting it on folks who’ll extort you, not when there’s another option.”
She canted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sailing to Manchester on the morning tide, remember?” A nervous smile curved up the corners of Bill’s lips. “So, why don’t you come with me? I can smuggle you on-board, and you can save yourself the coin.”
Her mouth opened in shock. “How would you even begin to do that?”
“Follow me. I’ve got an idea.” He took her by the hand and led her away from the main thoroughfare of the docks, toward one of the looming warehouses in the near distance.
For the first time, she did not balk at his touch, for in the graze of his skin was a promise that he would keep her safe. And after all he had done for in their short acquaintance, she had no reason to disbelieve him any longer.
Chapter Eight
“Are you sure this will work?” Clary shifted uncomfortably as she stood aboard the Dawn Voyager, awaiting the arrival of Captain Wilks.
Bill smiled down at her. “If you let me talk, we’ll not fail,” he assured, observing her with curious eyes. “I hate to say it, but the swelling helps. He’d know you were a lass if he could see you properly.”
Clary fidgeted with the coarse woollen waistcoat, the collar itching her neck. They had found the clothes discarded in one of the warehouses, and though she was fairly sure it would be considered theft, she was more concerned about the lice and mites that might be about to punish her with bites and rashes; the pernicious creatures living without rents in the seams of the fabric.
Although, she had to say, she rather liked the freedom of wearing trousers, and though she had been forced to bind her chest with torn up strips of her ruined undergarments, it was somewhat pleasant to be able to move her arms freely in a shirt.
As for the woollen cap atop her head—she did not care for that at all and prayed she would not have to painstakingly remove nits from her hair with a fine toothcomb when they arrived in Manchester.
“Surely, he’ll figure me out anyway?” Clary whispered. “I don’t speak or walk or stand like a man.”
Bill patted her gently on the arm. “Maybe not, but young lads don’t sound much different to you.”
Nerves bristled through her, making her stomach churn as though she were already out on the open water with a bout of seasickness. If this did not work, she wondered what the repercussions for Bill would be.
In truth, she did not quite understand why he was being so kind and generous to her. Saving her was one thing but engineering this ploy in order to gain her passage to Manchester was quite another. Indeed, she rather thought it above and beyond the call of duty.
Just then, a tall, broad-shouldered man with neat hair and combed whiskers approached. He was not at all what Clary had expected from a captain, so she did not realise that he was Captain Wilks until he came to a stop in front of them.
“Is this the lad?” Captain Wilks arched an eyebrow.
Bill nodded. “Aye, Captain. Found him wandering around, seeking work. Says he needs to get passage to Manchester, and he’s willing to work for naught but food and board.”
“Have you worked a ship before, lad?” Captain Wilks addressed Clary directly. She hoped he could not see the tremor in her hands, or the shake in her legs.
She cleared her throat, attempting to lower her voice. “I haven’t, Captain, but I’ve worked in a hospital. I can help the ship’s doctor if anything happens to one of your men.”
“You think we’ve got us a ship’s doctor?” Captain Wilks laughed. “I don’t have the coin for that.”
“Then you’re lucky I came along,” she replied, thinking fast. “I’m offering my physician services for no coin at all.”
Captain Wilks smiled, clearly amused by her spirit. “What’s waiting for you in Manchester?”
“Family, Captain.” She swallowed thickly. “My ma and pa died recently, so I’m seeking out my grandmother.”
The captain gave a small nod. “I’m mighty sorry to hear that, lad.” He came closer, and grabbed Clary’s arm, giving it a squeeze. “Well, you’re thinner than I’d like, so you’ll be no good on the rigging or in the hold. Might be we’ll have to fatten you up whilst you’re aboard, see if there’s some strength in these chicken bones.” He paused. “But you’ve snatched me interest with this physician lark. Is it just limbs you’re used to fixing, or can you help coughs and that, too?”
“Most ailments, Captain. If you’ve herbs and oils I can work with, I can cure plenty.” It was a bold promise from Clary, but one she was confident she could uphold.
He scratched at his jaw in thought. “We’ve a shipment of herbs and spices in the hold. I suppose we could skim some off the top if it keeps the lads in rude health.” He tilted his head to one side. “It’s only a few days to Manchester. Can you do some good in that time?”
“Aye, Captain,” she replied without hesitation. “Give me a vacant room and some supplies, and I’ll have your lads fitter than they’ve ever been.”
Another bold promise, but she had seen the children at the Foundling Hospital through many a cruel winter. She doubted a ship full of grown men could be much different.
The captain put out his hand. “Consider yourself the ship’s doctor of the Dawn Voyager. If I like your work, maybe you’ll consider staying on past Manchester.”
“I’ll consider it, Captain,” Clary lied, shaking the captain’s hand. She had never had any desire to travel further than England’s fair shores, and that was not about to change. After all, journeying to Manchester under the guise of a young man, and journeying all the way to the Americas under the same ruse were as different as a sprint and a marathon. At present, she was not even certain she could endure the sprint without being found out.
Captain Wilks looked to Bill. “Will you show the lad around, and get Frobisher to bring up a sixteenth of each spice we’ve got apart from the saffron? He can take the store room next to the galley for his surgery, though the lads are going to complain about it. I’ll let you deal with that.”
“Aye, Captain.” Bill nodded and ushered Clary toward the square hole in the top deck, where they descended together into the belly of the ship.
The smell struck Clary first: a permeating, insidious aroma of stagnant water, rotting wood, nostril-stinging saline, soured vomit, and the musky undernote of sweat, urine, densely packed bodies, and human waste.
But what came next was far more appalling, as she was met in the narrow, cramped walkway by a hulking bear of a man, with two brutish looking fellows behind him. They had similarly grizzled faces to Rufford, but there was no softness about these three.
Immediately, memories of the alleyway came surging back, making her stumble on the warped floorboards as her breaths came in frantic pants.
“What’s the matter with the lad?” the bear asked, squinting at Clary.
Bill grasped her arm and pulled her to his side. “Just getting his sea legs.”
“Happens to the best of us, lad.” The bear reached out and clapped his hand against Clary’s shoulder, sending juddering reverberations through her bones. “This life ain’t for everyone, though if
you’re goin’ to be sick, do it over the side for all our sakes, eh?”
“If he ain’t a sailor, what’s he doing on-board?” One of the men behind the bear peered around, observing the newcomer.
Bill manoeuvred Clary behind him. “He’s taking on the work of a ship’s doctor, until we reach Manchester. If you’ve any ailments that’ve been bothering you, you best come see him while you’ve got the chance.”
“I’ve got this welt on me leg that won’t heal.” The third sailor popped out, wearing an eager expression as he began to unbuckle his belt. “I even tried burnin’ it, but it only made it worse. There’s stuff seepin’ out of it—all green and thick.”
Clary swallowed the rising bile in her throat. “If you come see me after the ship’s disembarked, I’ll tend to you then.” She was surprised by the strength in her voice, especially as a cold flush washed over her—the kind that usually came before a fainting spell. “I haven’t got my supplies yet, so I can’t do anything until I do.”
The sailor looked disappointed. “Aye, well I’ll do that. I don’t want it gettin’ amputated.”
“There’d be lasses cryin’ from here to China!” The bear guffawed, smacking his acquaintance on the back so hard that the poor man almost sprawled onto the ground.
Bill hurriedly pushed Clary past the trio. “I’ll tell you when he’s accepting patients, lads.”
Putting the sailors behind them, Bill urged Clary on down a network of low-ceilinged, narrow passageways until they reached a couple of wooden boards that served as a doorway. He pushed on it until the door gave, revealing a dark, gloomy hole of a room, crammed with old barrels, a trough of mouldering food scraps with flies buzzing around it, and a few upturned chairs.
Clary braced against the wall, immediately regretting it as a slimy substance streaked her palm. “I don’t think I can do this, Bill.”
“It’s only for a few days,” he reassured. “This is for your pa, remember?”