In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘They does breed their wenches surly hereabouts,’ observed Trevan. ‘Comely too, mind, but that look she gave Sean would have pickled an egg. You reckon she knows what we wants?’

  ‘Just so long as we gets the beer,’ said Evans. ‘I’m bleeding parched with all this walking, and I still ain’t fathomed what’s so important about that Rankin.’

  ‘Your mate’s been spying and the like, I am after thinking,’ said O’Malley.

  ‘For the last bleeding time, we ain’t muckers!’ protested Evans.

  ‘Perhaps not, but I reckon you has the truth of it there, Sean,’ said Trevan. ‘But hush such talk, now! Here comes the wench.’

  ‘Hah, she don’t speak no bleeding English,’ scoffed Evans. The serving girl approached the table again, making light work of the heavily laden tray that was balanced on her hip. On it was everything the sailors had asked for.

  ‘You lads make better players than I reckoned,’ said Sedgwick, looking at the spread on the table as she transferred it across.

  ‘Two crowns for the meal,’ said the girl, in accented but understandable English, ‘but if you give me the gold piece, I will also tell you were you can find your friend.’ The sailors gaped at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you bleeding say as you understood us plain?’ demanded Evans.

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ said the waitress. ‘So, do you want to know?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sedgwick, handing over the coin. ‘Where is he, then?’ She tested it between her even white teeth, and then slipped the guinea into a pocket.

  ‘He eats in the booth nearest the fire,’ she said and promptly turned away. O’Malley’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she could disappear.

  ‘Not so fecking swift,’ he said. ‘Now you’ve got yourself a month’s wages for so little, be a love an’ show your man over,’ he said. He released her arm and went to pat her behind, but she swayed clear of his clumsy lunge and sashayed away towards the fireplace.

  ‘Easiest chink that wench has ever earned,’ observed Trevan.

  ‘Why didn’t that arse come over when he heard us come in?’ demanded the Londoner.

  ‘Coz I hadn’t finished my stew, Samuel Evans,’ said Rankin, appearing around the end of the partition and sitting down at their table. ‘And what Mr Vansittart will make of how you’ve been chucking his bleeding gold about, I daren’t consider, blackamoor.’

  His coat was travel-stained, splashed with mud beneath the waist, and his hair was a little more dishevelled than when they last saw him a week ago, but otherwise he seemed unchanged. He helped himself to some of their beer, drank deeply, and then wiped his mouth.

  ‘Nice of you all to show, at last,’ he observed. ‘So what instructions from his nibs?’

  ‘I’m to get you back to the Griffin, in one piece,’ explained Sedgwick.

  ‘Too bleeding right, but not until it is fully dark, nor by the front door,’ said Rankin. He nodded in the direction of the serving girl. ‘Clara can show us out the back way, when the time comes.’ The sailors exchanged glances.

  ‘I ain’t sure as how you needs us, Josh,’ said Sedgwick. ‘You seem to have matters down pat.’

  ‘Wouldn’t exactly say that,’ explained Rankin. ‘I have been through the odd mill, and I lost my pistol three days back. But getting clear from here should be easy enough. It’s at the other end I shall chiefly need you boys. Them bleeding Danes will be watching the Griffin closer than a miser does his cashbox. If I was to show up alone, I wouldn’t get within a hundred yards without having my collar felt. But if I pitch up in the midst of a party of returning tars, no one need be any the wiser.’

  ‘Hiding a tree in a wood, like,’ said Trevan

  ‘Or a turd in a privy,’ muttered Evans.

  ‘First I’m an arse, then I’m a bleeding turd?’ queried Rankin. ‘I am starting to think we ain’t friends, Big Sam, which would be a shame. Coz you really don’t want to be my enemy.’ He smiled at his fellow Londoner with his mouth, but his eyes were ice. Then they flicked away from Evans towards a group of locals who had appeared at the end of the table.

  ‘You not welcome, Englanders,’ snarled the leader, a big man with bare arms and the leather apron of a blacksmith. The others arranged themselves behind him, fingering various weapons and glaring at the sailors. From the far side of the partition came the sound of the bar’s other customers leaving. There was no sign of Clara the serving girl.

  ‘That’s a bleeding pity,’ said Rankin calmly. ‘See, I likes this place, with its fine ale and friendly punters. So I shan’t be going nowhere until I choose to.’ There was a pause while the man in the leather apron translated the gist of this to his companions, who all growled in response.

  ‘We fight,’ declared the blacksmith, stepping back from the table and inviting his opponent forward.

  ‘If we must,’ sighed Rankin. He turned to the other sailors. ‘Looks like you’re going to be needed after all, lads. Hope you’re up for it.’ He drained his mug, rose to his feet and stepped out of the booth, with the sailors crowding forward at his back. The blacksmith bunched his huge hands into fists, but Rankin turned away and walked towards the fireplace. The Danes exchanged looks of surprise.

  ‘What’s he bleeding playing at?’ whispered Evans.

  ‘I ain’t sure,’ said Sedgwick, ‘but the bastard’s got some bottom, I’ll grant him that.’

  Rankin seemed to be ignoring them all. He reached the end of the room, pulled off his coat, and hung it on one of the metal hooks set into the wall beside the chimney breast, all the time with his back to the Danes. The leader shrugged at the others, then rushed at the Londoner. Just as he neared his helpless opponent, Sedgwick realised that he could see multiple versions of Rankin’s face, watching the man’s approach in the polished bottoms of the copper pans above the fireplace. As the Dane drew back his fist to deliver a swinging blow, Rankin snatched the nearest pan from the wall and whirled around, light as a dancer. He swept it two-handed into the blacksmith’s face with a clang that reverberated across the room. The Dane crashed down as if he had been shot.

  ‘Clever bastard!’ marveled the coxswain.

  ‘Watch your fecking self, Able!’ warned O’Malley. With bellows of rage, the blacksmith’s companions launched themselves at the sailors, and a general melee broke out.

  Although the seamen were veterans of many a tavern brawl, things started poorly. Evans, who was by far the most formidable fighter amongst them, found himself cornered in the booth, facing a Dane armed with a battered sabre. Unable to close with his opponent, he was reduced to parrying the weapon using a large pewter jug he had swept up from the table. The blade screeched and clashed off the dull metal, leaving silver gashes in the surface.

  One of the other men rushed at Sedgwick, his club swinging through the air. The coxswain sprang inside the blow, which thudded across his shoulder, and he crashed into the chest of his opponent. His momentum carried both men into an empty booth on the opposite side of the bar, where they flailed and grappled on the floor.

  This left O’Malley and Trevan to fight the three remaining Danes, all of whom had heavy sticks and cudgels. By ducking and weaving, they managed to avoid the heaviest hits, but it could hardly last. Eventually the Irishman, while avoiding a savage blow from one enemy, stepped into the path of a thrust from another. It caught him full in the stomach, and he sank down to his knees with a groan.

  Then the fight started to turn in the seamen’s favour. Evans realised that though his opponent was the best armed, he had little training in how to use a sword and was tiring fast. The big sailor pretended to slip, watched his opponent’s eyes light up in triumph, and side-stepped his clumsy lunge with ease. The man stumbled forward and received a crashing left jab on the point of his chin. The right hook that followed it would have felled an ox, but the Dane was already on his way to the tavern floor, and it buffeted off the top of his head. Evans vaulted out of the booth into some clear space at last, swept his left foot f
orward and dropped into his prize fighter’s stance. Then he advanced on the three Danes that had Trevan cornered by the door.

  The first man never saw the blow that crashed into the side of his head, plumb on one of his ginger sideburns. The second managed to turn towards Evans, but was too slow to parry the volley of punches that rained in on him. With both his colleagues prostrate, the third opponent stared with horror at the huge sailor in front of him. A gust of chill air made him look around, and he saw that Trevan was holding the door of the bar open. The long ash handle he had been using as a weapon clattered onto the stone floor as he fled out into the street.

  ‘You all right, Adam?’ asked Evans, coming out of his crouch. He pointed to his own cheek. ‘You got a bit of claret on you, just there.’

  ‘It only be a scratch,’ said Trevan, wiping a sleeve across his face. ‘How’s Sean?’

  ‘Fit to puke,’ gasped the Irishman, getting shakily to his feet. ‘An’ my fecking nose is bust—again.’ Sedgwick crawled out of the booth where he had been fighting, wringing one of his hands. A pair of motionless boots, proud of the partition, was all that could be seen of his opponent.

  ‘How’s Josh?’ he asked, looking towards the fireplace.

  Rankin seemed quite unharmed by the fight, but the same could not be said for the blacksmith. He knelt on the floor, clawing at his neck with terror in his bulging eyes. A length of silk cord was wound around his throat, biting so deep that it was barely visible. His blue tongue lolled out from a foam-speckled mouth. Behind him stood Rankin, one end of the cord wrapped around each fist, his face contorted with fury as he garrotted his victim.

  ‘Jesus, let the fecker go!’ yelled O’Malley.

  ‘You’re going to killing him!’ warned Sedgwick.

  ‘No more than the bastard deserves,’ snarled Rankin, jerking the cord a little tighter.

  The sailors ran over. Sedgwick grabbed one arm while Trevan pulled at the other, but Rankin shook them off.

  ‘Too bleeding slow,’ announced Evans. He paused for a moment to set himself, and then sent his right fist crashing, hard and full, into the face of his fellow Londoner.

  Chapter 7

  Flight

  Lieutenant Edward Preston stood by the quarterdeck rail of the frigate, contemplating the waters of the Sound as they slopped against the side of the ship. The wind had dropped as the short day moved towards evening, and the green water was darkening in the fading light. The sea was dotted with floating detritus. Two gulls were squabbling for possession of a large clump that drifted off the frigate’s beam.

  ‘What in all creation is that damned smell?’ exclaimed Thomas Macpherson, who had come up on deck to take the air.

  ‘The contents of Copenhagen’s many privies, I fancy, Tom,’ replied Preston. ‘All coastal cities discharge their filth into the sea, but with the breeze no longer playing it’s part and no tide to speak of in these parts, it is refusing to disperse.’

  ‘No tide?’ queried the Scot.

  ‘Not above a few inches,’ confirmed his friend. ‘There will be even less as we proceed deeper into the Baltic.’ Macpherson wrinkled his nose.

  ‘No wonder the Danes insist on pickling their fish before consuming them,’ he observed. ‘So it is not the odour of our neighbours?’

  Preston looked across at the big French frigate that was moored parallel to the Griffin, between the Royal Navy ship and the steep stone walls of the Kastellet fortress. She was a fine-looking vessel, with a hull that was significantly longer than that of her rival. Her lofty masts soared high into the evening sky, a good ten feet above those of the Griffin. The black hull of the Liberté was split by a broad white stripe that followed the line of her gun deck, from her figurehead of a bare-breasted woman brandishing a sword to the gilded figures clustered around her stern. The two men found themselves looking across at a matching pair of French officers, who leant against the rail of their ship and stared back at them. One of them raised his hat, revealing the blond curls of someone barely out of childhood, and after an awkward pause the British officers did the same.

  ‘She looks a fine ship,’ remarked Macpherson. ‘I am no expert, but her lines seem sharper than ours.’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be devilish fast,’ agreed Preston. ‘French ships are often built to be quick. It gives their commanders the option to fight or flee, should they find themselves embarrassed by one of ours.’

  Macpherson considered this for a moment. ‘Why are our ships not built to match them, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Because swiftness comes at a price,’ said his friend. ‘Those same lines will make her a deal less weatherly. A very wet ship in a blow, I make no doubt. No, I would sooner be aboard our Griffin if any sort of sea was running.’ He patted the oak rail beside him, as if reassuring a nervous horse.

  ‘You hold ours to be the better ship, then, not least for the company aboard,’ said the marine, looking significantly at him. ‘I notice that in spite of her father’s keenness to be away, Miss Hockley is still gracing us.’

  ‘She is,’ said Preston. ‘But that can be no concern of mine.’ He continued to stare at the oily water, the broken reflection of the French ship wavering on its surface.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Macpherson. ‘But surely you have won that particular race? Half the wardroom wanted to enjoy her society, and yet she shows a clear inclination for you.’ He stroked one of his bushy dark sideburns. ‘It is a mystery why, I grant you. Perhaps those delightful eyes of hers are weak? Mind, they do say that love is blind.’

  ‘She may be partial to my acquaintance, but her father has made his views as to my suitability very plain.’

  ‘And what is it he objects too?’ demanded the Scot. ‘You are more of a gentleman that he is.’

  ‘Look at me, Tom,’ said Preston. ‘I am hardly much of a catch.’ Macpherson did as he was asked, taking in his friend’s handsome face, still pale and gaunt, the dark eyes haunted by pain, and the empty sleeve pinned across his chest.

  ‘Fine, regular features,’ listed Macpherson, ‘together with an open countenance. No trace of any conceit, yet a cheerful disposition, considerable intelligence and notable courage. I know of nothing in your character that you should not be proud of, Edward.’

  ‘I am in want of an arm, for God sake!’

  ‘Which makes your appearance superior by at least an eye over that of Lord Nelson,’ observed the marine, ‘and he seems to have little problem attracting the attentions of the fairer sex. He has to beat them off, if half the rumours are true.’

  ‘Lord Nelson!’ exclaimed Preston. ‘Why does everyone try and compare me to him!’ He spun away from the rail, but his friend caught his arm and drew him back.

  ‘Your pardon, Edward,’ he said. ‘It was ill-judged of me to speak lightly of such a grave matter. It is just my way. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive, Tom,’ said Preston. ‘You find me low in spirits, because I admire Miss Hockley but I cannot think how to win her in the face of the implacable opposition of her father. And time is so short! They will leave the ship soon, returning home, while we are bound for God only knows where. I am not sure how I shall bear it.’ Macpherson looked at his friend with pity in his eyes. The young man’s voice was cracking with the depth of his emotion.

  ‘You know, Edward, your situation reminds me a wee bit of the captain’s courtship,’ he said.

  ‘How so?’ asked Preston.

  ‘He fell in love with a woman of a superior rank to his own,’ explained Scot. ‘He was forbidden to meet with Miss Browning, as she was then, and yet in spite of all, they are now man and wife.’

  ‘But he is a post captain,’ protested his friend.

  ‘Not when they met. He was only a lieutenant, just as you are,’ said Macpherson. ‘Consider your many advantages over his position. The captain was divided from the object of his affection by many thousands of miles, she having accompanied her family to Bengal.’

  ‘He wasn’t a cripple,�
� said Preston quietly.

  ‘Leave it be, Edward!’ urged his friend. ‘It’s clear to all that your want of an arm means nothing to Miss Hockley, so why the devil should it prove a bar for you? Declare yourself to her, man! Tell her how you feel, before she leaves the ship and it is too late.’

  ‘And what of the objections of her father?’

  ‘He loves his daughter above all else,’ said Macpherson. ‘That is plain to see. If she truly cares for you, she will find a way to persuade him.’

  ******

  ‘Still breathing,’ pronounced Sedgwick, kneeling low to bring his cheek close to the Danish blacksmith’s mouth. ‘Let’s hope we can say the same for Rankin, after you lumped him, Sam. You do know we’re to see him back to the barky in one piece?’

  ‘It did make him bleeding stop, mind,’ said Evans, who was standing over the recumbent valet. ‘Felt good, an’ all. I’ve been wanting to do that since I was a youngster.’ The serving girl appeared beside him, leant forward and spat on the unconscious Londoner.

  ‘Dit svin!’ she hissed.

  ‘Aye, you tell him, Clara,’ agreed Evans, patting her on the back.

  ‘What manner of neck cloth be this, lads?’ queried O’Malley. He pulled a rope of twisted red silk from Rankin’s unresisting grip, weighted at each end with a round knot. ‘Sort of thing a fecking Turk would use.’

  The blacksmith made a gasping cough, and his eyes started to flutter open. At the same time the Dane who had fought with Sedgwick groaned and shifted in the wrecked booth, while from out in the street came the sound of distant shouting.

  ‘The one you let go!’ exclaimed Clara. ‘He will have called out the watch! Quick, you come with me!’

  The four sailors picked up the unconscious Rankin and followed the serving girl down a hallway that led towards the back of the building. There were doors on either side; one opened into a kitchen lit by the glow of a fire, the next had stone steps, leading down, but Clara pressed on to the passageway’s end. She pulled open a big door and stood aside, urging them through it. They hurried into the cold night, and found themselves in a narrow, dark passageway that ran between the buildings. The moment they were outside, Clara slammed and bolted the door behind them.