by Betina Krahn
“Lost track o’ how many men we took down and how many volleys we fired. The second ship turned to empty their cannon on us, but we got the first broadside before they could ram their waddin’. Aimed at the water line, we did—old Navy trick—an’ them old wooden hulls sucked up cannonballs like spit on sponges. They maneuvered close enough to board us an’ soon the decks were slippery wi’ blood an’ there was bodies floatin’ in the water. Th’ second bark caught fire . . . th’ crew that was left abandoned ship when it started to sink. The third came straight in—don’t know why the bastards didn’t run. Guess they figured to relieve the first two o’ some cargo, once the fightin’ was done.
“Hand-to-hand an’ blade-to-blade we was—no time to load guns anymore. Past the first volley or two, they didn’t’ bother wi’ cannon either . . . just come streamin’ aboard in waves, like rats.
“Fer a time I forgot where I was . . . kept slashin’ and roarin’ and climbin’ over bodies. My eyes burned from smoke and I could barely breathe for the stench of burned gunpowder. My arms an’ legs seemed to move on their own.
“Then my boys managed to load our one remainin’ gun. Luckiest damned shot ever—hit their powder magazine—it blew an’ took out half the deck an’ main mast. Got ’em good—splinters an’ arms an’ legs flyin’ everywhere—th’ bastards screamin’ as they flew over the side. Blew a hole clean through ’er. She took on water, then rolled like a mackerel. A sight I’ll never forget.
“By that time the Coast Riders had seen th’ light from the fires. They spotted my cutter behind the rocks and set about chasing down the smugglers who made it to shore.”
Lauren stared at the mental pictures he painted, stunned by his descriptions of ships being sunk and bodies being torn asunder.
“How did you survive?” she said through a tightened throat.
“Don’t rightly know. I come to days later . . . a sawbones had cut off my leg. Had enough laudanum in me to kill a horse.” His bravado dimmed as he stared into memory. “Ten of my crew survived, tho’ some were torn up pretty bad. A couple o’ my lads got burned in th’ fires. They stood their ground, tho’, an’ took down dozens of the bloody bastards.” He paused, his face now grave as he saw the carnage afresh in his mind. “I fight it over an’ over in my sleep every night . . . tryin’ to save my lads.”
Rafe took a deep breath and turned to her to explain. “That was the biggest haul of contraband the Coastguard had ever captured. Rum, brandy, gunpowder, mahogany, and pig iron. Some of it had to be raised from where the ships went down. The Coast Riders kept the locals from salvaging, and the bulk of the cargo was claimed for the Crown and transported to Sussex. Miraculously, Captain Stringer’s cutter remained untouched. He was decorated again for his extraordinary courage. Three frigate-size ships against a single cutter with a nineteen-man crew—it was a feat worth every honor in the books.”
She took another breath, trying to dispel the stark images the old sea dog had evoked with his story.
“Imagine seeing you here!” A male voice burst through the somber mood. She and Rafe both turned and discovered a striking, broad-shouldered fellow in an expensive-looking suit bearing down on them.
“Barclay!” Rafe shot to his feet.
His surprise was matched by Lauren’s. The man bore a half-healed black eye, a cut on his lip, and greening bruises that matched the ones on Rafe’s face. She rose, causing the captain to scramble to his feet and sway before steadying himself.
“This must be the Angel of the Streets.” The man Rafe called Barclay brushed past him to reach for Lauren’s hand. She could see beneath those fading injuries a strong-featured face and striking brown eyes. His shoulders were unusually wide and his dark hair was a bit unruly, but every other aspect of his appearance and bearing spoke of gentlemanly status. “Don’t just stand there; introduce me to the Angel.”
Rafe did not look pleased.
“Miss Alcott, may I present Barclay Howard, grandson of the Earl of Northrup and my sometime landlord. Barclay, Miss Alcott, my intended.”
“Bounder,” Barclay charged with a smile, then addressed her. “I have never once charged this cadger rent. I just make him restock the liquor cabinet when we run dry.” He turned halfway to Rafe. “She is splendid, man. You are blessed beyond words.” Then he turned back to Lauren. “If he makes a shambles of this engagement, you must allow me to console you and correct whatever foul impression he might leave of British manhood.”
“I have a healthy regard for British manhood, Mr. Howard. Though I cannot help but wonder if you were one of the old chums Rafe encountered a few nights ago.” She tapped below her eye. “You bear the same souvenirs.”
Barclay glanced at Rafe. “We encountered the same group, Miss Alcott. As friends, we stood together to correct a wrong impression.”
Lauren glanced at Rafe, who looked as if he might take a swing at his old friend and landlord here and now. Her heart sank as she realized the fight probably had to do with the impression made by those blasted articles in The Post and The Examiner. Rafe had paid for her reckless words in pain. Small wonder he had been prickly and difficult with her.
A second later Barclay produced a rolled newspaper from under his arm and slapped it against Rafe’s midsection. “Brace yourself, old man. Page two.”
Rafe opened the paper, and whatever he read inside caused him to blanch. She stepped past Barclay to his side and saw bold print proclaiming “The Angel of the Streets.” So that was why Barclay had called her that instead of mentioning the cursed river.
At that moment old Stringer finished the last of the flask. As Lauren tried to read the article over Rafe’s arm, the captain spotted another audience and lurched off with an “Ahoy, mates!” to relive yet again his glorious deeds.
Rafe abruptly folded the newspaper and straightened.
“I believe we should move on.”
“What does it say?” Lauren demanded. “I saw only the first few lines.”
“The usual. You’re an angel of mercy and I am a heartless cad.”
Barclay shook his head. “How they get by with printing such stuff is beyond me. Though I can certainly see why they cast you, Miss Alcott, in the role of an angel.”
Rafe groaned. “Little do they know. And what brings you to the Palace, Barr, besides spreading cheer?”
“Intentional happenstance. I overheard a certain young lady mention an outing to the Crystal Palace and decided it might be a pleasant morning for an indoor stroll myself.” He looked around. “It appears she changed her plans. Still, one should never pass up an opportunity to renew one’s acquaintance with parlor palms and giant goldfish.”
The mischief in his face made Lauren smile. He was a peach, Barclay Howard. Rafe had interesting taste in friends.
Soon the threesome was walking around the glass palace together, sharing the pleasure of the exhibits. They paused for lemon ices from one of the vendors and perched by the topmost-floor railing to enjoy the sunshine breaking out between the clouds.
“How do you know Captain Stringer, Mr. Howard?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Only by his stories, Miss Alcott. Unlike Rafe, I was never a naval sort. He managed to survive a training stint on one of the old boy’s Coastguard ships some years back.”
“Quite a character,” she murmured, turning to Rafe. “Was the story he told true?”
“Every word and more. You got the short version,” Rafe responded, catching her gaze in his. “He is a legend in naval circles. A true hero.”
She reddened under his probing gaze. He undoubtedly was wondering if she’d gotten the point of this “accidental” encounter.
“He drinks before noon, is slovenly in appearance and coarse in manner—hardly what one expects of an officer and a gentleman.” She realized that her judgment, though spot-on, sounded harsh.
“You prefer your heroes sober, immaculately groomed, and courteous to a fault?” Rafe gave a deep rumble of a laugh. “In the world of make-believe
stories, perhaps. In the real world, Stringer is probably as close to a living, breathing hero as you will ever come.”
That confirmed her suspicion about why he had brought her here . . . to meet his version of a bona fide hero. He honestly believed she was a pampered schoolgirl with stars in her eyes. Her expression tightened.
“Do you have the time?” she asked of Barclay, having spotted the chain on his vest. “We have an engagement at three o’clock.”
Barclay read his pocket watch. “Just past two.”
“Then we should have the doorman summon a cab.”
“Tut-tut, Miss Alcott.” Barclay gave her a glowing smile. “Your intended may be a devotee of public cabs, but I am not. I gladly offer you the use of my personal chariot.”
“You have no idea how far she intends to go,” Rafe said curtly. He had caught the chill she was casting his way. Barclay, bless him, shot Rafe a wicked grin.
“I would take this fair angel to the ends of the earth if she asked.”
Rafe shot him a dagger of a look that drew Barclay’s laugh.
She beamed at Barclay as he held out his arm, and she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. He led her down the ornate iron steps to the entry. Rafe was left to follow with his face like a thundercloud.
* * *
After watching Barclay install his intended in the grand brougham, Rafe scowled and muttered just for his friend’s ears, “Bootlicker.”
Barclay gave a wicked grin and leaned just close enough to respond. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t lick those dainty boots if you got the chance.”
“What was that?” Lauren asked as they climbed into the carriage and settled, one on either side of her, causing something of a squeeze. The fact that neither would give way betrayed the subtle competition underlying their friendship.
“Just a comment on boots . . . quite the fashion these days,” Barclay said, leaning a bit too close to her for Rafe’s liking.
Lauren gathered her skirts and shifted across the carriage to sit facing the pair of them, and Rafe smiled.
Nine
“Not this place.” Barclay’s dismay at the sight of the Seven Sisters wrenched a laugh from Rafe and a smile from Lauren.
“Seven Sisters makes a very tasty pork pie,” she said as the carriage came to a halt. “Are you sure you won’t join us?”
“Save yourself, man,” Rafe said, too loudly to have been meant for Barclay alone. “The place may be infested with urchins.”
“Urchins?” Barclay frowned briefly.
“We’ve invited a new acquaintance and his sisters for luncheon here,” she explained, drawing a grimace from Rafe.
“She invited them,” he explained. “One of her duties as an angel.”
Barclay gave Rafe a wry look. “And you’re an angel’s accomplice now? This I must see.”
There was an uncommon amount of foot traffic on the street, which was too narrow to allow a heavily loaded wagon to pass Barclay’s grand carriage. The wagon driver shook his fist and snarled about “swells” taking up too much room. But part of the problem was a number of men ignoring the pavement to stalk down the middle of the street in groups, headed in the direction of the docks.
As Rafe and Barclay vied to help her down from the carriage step, the door to the Seven Sisters opened and Lauren’s Aunt Amanda appeared in the doorway, along with the restaurant’s agitated owner.
“Auntie A, what are you doing here?” Lauren rushed to her aunt.
“You forgot this, dear.” She held up a familiar rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and string. “I thought I would bring it and see what you’re up to,” Amanda said, eyeing Rafe and Barclay behind her. “Quite a bit, I see.”
“The books!” Lauren seized the package. “Thank you so much, Auntie A. Are Jims and his sisters here?” Her aunt seemed a bit confused and stepped back to admit her to the pub. Lauren’s jaw dropped as she paused inside the entrance to the dining room.
Every chair at every table was filled with a child—no, a ragged urchin. And not one of them appeared to be Jims Gardiner.
The owner stammered that he didn’t know how many to expect, and when they began showing up he was afraid to turn them away . . . given the piece in the newspaper. Lauren’s shock was mirrored by Rafe’s as he and Barclay ducked into the restaurant.
“Sweet Jesus.” It was half-whispered, and she couldn’t tell whether it came from Rafe or his friend until Barclay continued, “Are you running a school here or a soup kitchen?”
Lauren looked in dismay at the score of children turning to her, asking where the food was and if they’d get books, too. Two older girls stood and shushed the others.
“Miz Alcott”–they made awkward bows—“we’re Jims’s sisters, Polly and Althie. Jims saw the men headin’ fer the docks wi’ clubs and ran out to see what was happenin’.”
“Happening where?” Rafe demanded.
The girls drew back, wary of his scowl, but one finally answered. “The men is grumblin’ about no work—th’ ships not unloadin’ at the docks. They say they’re goin’ to make the Customs men pay.”
Rafe turned to Barclay. “We kept hoping talk was all it was.”
“Talk about what?” Lauren asked, touching his arm.
“The men who work the docks don’t get paid if they don’t unload cargo. And cargo is sitting on boats in the harbor . . . the tariffs were just raised again and some can’t or won’t pay them.” He looked to Barclay. “Stay here. I have to see what’s happening.”
Before Lauren could ask what he intended to do he was out the door and charging down the street.
“What does he need to see?” She turned to Barclay, both confused and annoyed. “What does it have to do with him?”
“One of the ships sitting off the docks belongs to Townsend.”
Lauren froze for a moment, remembering the lowered voices in her father’s study saying that business was not proceeding as usual. Now a Townsend ship was sitting in the harbor unwilling or unable to pay the increased tariffs on the goods it was carrying. A sense of urgency she couldn’t explain seized her; she had to see what was happening herself.
She turned to Aunt Amanda. “Please, Auntie A, see the children get fed and read them some stories.” She dumped the parcel and a five-pound note into Amanda’s arms. “Afterward give the books to them—one to each family.”
“What? Wait—” Amanda’s eyes widened on the restless children.
“You”—she took Barclay by the arm and pulled him out the door—“come with me.”
“Gladly,” he said with a smile. “Where?”
“Wherever Rafe is going.”
A moment later they had dismissed the Howard carriage to wait elsewhere and were hurrying after Rafe.
As they moved toward the docks, more men joined the exodus, talking boldly about the unfairness of the government’s scheme. “Protect the rich and to hell with workin’ men,” one of the brawny crew declared. Tariffs put them out of work and made goods too pricey to sell, they roared. Damn the bloody government for takin’ food from their children’s mouths!
Twice Barclay steered her into a doorway and blocked the sight of her with his big frame until a rowdy group of men passed. “You should go back, Miss Alcott. This is no place for ladies.”
“I’m not a shrinking violet, Mr. Howard. You can go back if you wish.” She raised her chin, studying him. “But if you come with me, you’ll have to remove that top hat . . . lest one of these fellows removes it for you.”
Barclay glanced around them, then did as she suggested.
“Very well.” He frowned. “But if things turn ugly . . .”
“I’ll hide behind you,” she said with a glowing smile.
That settled it. He straightened, carried his hat under his arm, and gave her his other arm to continue.
* * *
Rafe skirted the edge of the crowd filling the street leading to the offices of the harbormaster. He had been to the harbor offi
ces numerous times to meet Townsend captains and pay docking fees. The harbormaster was a fairly reasonable man, caught as he was between the demands of his government superiors and the need to keep trade and commerce flowing through his domain.
It was the greedy politicians and their cronies in banking who caused the panic of ’73 and sent the economy plunging. Now, seven years later, business owners and workers alike were still struggling to make ends meet. The tariffs meant to protect British industry and production had been countered by tariffs across Europe and reduced trade across the entire continent. Less demand for British goods overseas meant fewer jobs and higher prices at home. Unemployment rose, and men who had no work found ways to fill their time and make their anger known. The focus of that anger just now was the harbormaster, the most visible embodiment of the government’s tariff policy.
The crowd, mostly sinewy dock workers in shirtsleeves, was packed into the brick-paved square in front of the harbormaster’s office on the edge of a wharf. From the anonymity of the crowd voices were raised, demanding that ships be allowed to dock and their cargoes be released. Each demand grew louder and the mood of the crowd grew angrier.
Constables arrived, to push the men away from the harbormaster’s door, swinging truncheons to clear the way. But their arrival was too late to dampen the crowd’s rebellious mood. In fact, as Rafe saw it, their presence and pugnacious attitude only aggravated the situation. There was a fight in the air and these desperate men and their cause would be the losers, no matter who was left standing.
Setting his hat aside and discarding his coat, he pocketed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. He had learned long ago, at his bombastic father’s knee, that to talk to men in shirtsleeves he’d have to be in shirtsleeves. A tall freight wagon of crates and casks, sitting at the edge of the square, would make a perfect platform. He burrowed his way through the mass of men and climbed up on it. He could see shoving in the middle of the crowd and realized the men at the front would soon be propelled into the line of constables now guarding the harbormaster’s door.
