by Carla Kelly
“Aye, aye. Masterful job there, Surgeon Laing,” Able said. “Why do I think he’s going to get a stitch or two, whether he needs one or not?”
“A surgeon can’t be too careful,” Laing countered. “He can brag about it, and no harm is done.” He chuckled. “I believe I promised Hippocrates I would do no harm.”
“You, sir, will go far in the fleet.”
Laing turned serious. “Watch her carefully.” He laughed out loud then. “And for the Lord’s sake, Master Six, put on some clothes!”
— Chapter Twenty-one —
Able watched his wife all night. He burped Ben and put him to sleep in the cradle Mrs. Perry brought up from the cellar, now that his son had graduated to a larger crib in the next room.
“She needs to know he’s near as her fingertips,” he explained to Mrs. Perry, after he pulled on a nightshirt and made a quick trip downstairs after son and wife slept. “Well, Mister Mark, it appears that you needed a ship’s surgeon.”
John touched the impressive bandage that probably went above and beyond the call of duty, if Surgeon Lang’s smile was any indication.
“It’s a true battle scar,” Laing said. “He didn’t even flinch when I sutured him.”
Able looked around the warm kitchen, where Nick and Davey chatted by the fireplace, catching up on matters, now that the older Davey was apprenticed to Haslar’s apothecary, but still considered himself a Gunwharf Rat. The little ghost from the block pulley factory had seated himself in front of a steaming bowl of fish stew, but his eyes were on a mound of petit fours left, so Mrs. Perry told them, by their baker down the street. In that navy way no one understood but everyone accepted, Ezekiel Bartleby had gotten wind of the trouble on the docks. Able helped himself to a petit fours.
“Sit yourself down, Nathan Laing, and have some cod stew. No one makes it better than Mrs. Perry.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” The surgeon sat down and motioned to an empty chair. “Join me?”
“I’ll take a tote upstairs,” Able said, unwilling to be gone long. “Mrs. Perry, will you and Betsy please set up that extra cot in the lads’ room? We’ll put our silent visitor in there. Also, are there any clothes that would fit him? It seems to me that Stephen Hoyt had outgrown some that he left behind.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Mrs. Perry said as she filled a mug with soup and stuck in some bread to soak.
He was heading for the stairs, when he heard a knock. Balancing the food in one hand, he opened the door on Constable Cornwall.
“Just checking,” the constable said. “A nightshirt, sir?”
“It’s my home,” Able replied, with as much dignity as he could manage.
In a few sentences, Able brought him up to date, thanking him again for his prompt help with Mrs. Six. He told the constable to go into the kitchen for bread and stew and maybe petit fours, if they hadn’t been entirely devoured.
“I am full of petit fours,” the constable said, and followed that statement with a surprising smile, surprising because Able couldn’t think of a time Walter Cornwall had ever smiled. It threw the years off him by the handful. “Who should stop me on my way here but Ezekiel Barnaby? He claims we are all heroes.” The smile left his face. “I only wish we were.”
“You were right where we needed you,” Able said simply.
“The credit goes to Betsy MacGregor,” he said, but there was no overlooking his blush at praise. Able thought perhaps constables didn’t get as much commendation as they deserved. “Poor girl. She’s still afraid of me, but that didn’t stop her at Landport.”
“You absolutely terrified her, at first meeting by the ash cans,” Able said.
“I know, and it’s bothered me this year and more,” Walter said. “It took a lot of courage for her to run to Landport and ask for me, but Mrs. Six told her to.”
“Courage seems to be our coin of the realm, eh, constable?” Able said, wanting to put him at his ease, and wishing Meri were there, because she was better at that.
“I suppose it is,” he said. His expression lightened when he heard Mrs. Perry and the maid leave the kitchen, carrying a cot between then. “I’ll help with that, Mrs. Perry, if you’ll let me.”
Able watched the constable took the cot from both women and shoulder it. Mrs. Perry led the way, but Walter hung back for a moment. Able felt as though he were eavesdropping on a personal moment, but where was he to go, standing there holding a mug and bread?
“Miss MacGregor, thank you for what you did,” Walter said. “I…I know I frighten you. I wish I didn’t.”
His words were simple, forthright and honest, much like the man himself. Able tried not to watch, but he wanted to know how she would react. He could put it down to research. Moments like this were to be studied.
He knew Betsy to be just as forthright and honest, much like her twin, serving the fleet in the Mediterranean. She did not disappoint.
“Maybe it is time I stopped fearing you,” Betsy said. “You were only doing your duty that night.” She looked away and smiled, something she did occasionally that Able found charming. “Truth to tell, I was digging in an ash can for food, and I had run away from a workhouse.” Again, that endearing look-away half smile. “And what’s more, you know it, Constable Cornwall, think on.”
Walter made a small gesture with his hand. “I’ve been there, too, miss. Over and done?”
“Aye, sir.”
“It’s Walter,” he said. He hurried after Mrs. Perry with the cot perched on his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.
Betsy looked down at the sheets and pillow in her hands, smiling at them in that way Meri sometimes did when she had secrets. Well, well, Able thought.
Then it was upstairs himself, ready to spend the night standing his own watch over his wife. He lay down beside her, relieved that her shivering had nearly stopped. She woke up in tears twice before morning, but he was awake and ready, standing a personal watch that went far deeper than any watch on any quarterdeck on any ship on any ocean.
Surgeon Laing came upstairs twice in the night to assess his patient, listen to her lungs and rest his hand gently on her abdomen, feeling for those deep shivers that had wracked her body. The second time he had smiled, and told Able he was going home to his own bed. “You have the matter well in hand, Master Six,” he whispered, as he darkened his slatted lamp and left their bedchamber. God bless the Royal Navy’s surgeons.
By morning, Able had questions, but not questions for Meri, who had come upon the whole wretched scene after John Mark had run home to enlist her aid. He knew the lad was observant. He also knew the whole experience had jolted him and he might not want to remember. All Able could do was ask John Mark just what had alerted him to the water kegs in the first place.
First, he changed Ben’s sodden diaper and talked to his son, which woke up Meri. She sat up and stretched, which made her wince a little. Still naked, she looked down at her breasts and shook her head. “That dreadful man grabbed my dress by the collar and jerked down my bodice,” she said, and Able heard all the rage. “Look, he scratched me.”
She pulled back the covers next, looked between her legs and started to cry. “Someone else put his hands on me down there. I have bruises.”
Able set Ben down at the foot of their bed and took his wife in his arms. “It’s nothing that won’t fade and disappear,” he murmured.
She burrowed close. “Will I stop thinking about it?”
“In time,” he said. “In time. You’re safe and you’re mine, and you’re not going near the docks again for anything.”
“No, I am not, except…” She held her arms up as he lowered her nightgown on her. “What if one of our Gunwharf Rats needs me and you are not around? John is only eleven, after all.”
“I have some ideas on the matter. Perhaps he could use a b
odyguard.”
“Thanks, love.” She took Ben from him and unbuttoned her nightgown. “And where will you find such a commodity?”
“St. Brendan’s has its share of workhouse toughs, Meri.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll send Mrs. Perry up with breakfast for you, after which you will remain a lady of leisure today and stay in bed. That was Surgeon Laing’s last stipulation before he raised anchor at three seventeen this morning and went home.”
“I’ll be bored,” she said, in that mutinous tone of voice that reassured him as nothing else could that his Meri was going to be fine, and soon.
“That I doubt. You will be resting. Behave yourself, wife.”
He looked in the room that John Mark, Nick and now little Piers shared, but it was empty. He found everyone at a breakfast that Mrs. Perry must have confused with a holiday. When he asked what the occasion was for veritable mounds of food, she glared at him.
“I felt like it, Master Six,” she declared, reminding him that Mrs. Six may have been called Mam, but Mrs. Perry claimed the menus.
Nick and John had finished, but Piers continued to eat steadily, packing away eggs and cakes and sausage. Able joined him, reminded of ragged children at the docks of any port in any country, on the prowl for food. “Piers?” he asked.
Nothing. “That’s not your name, is it?” Able asked. “I think you don’t speak English.”
As he ate, he observed the child, still dressed in yesterday’s rags, his yellow-orange smock grimy and smelling like something worn too long. There was faint writing on the back of the shirt. Able leaned back, wondering why he hadn’t noticed that sooner. He saw what looked vaguely like a T and an O, and understood. Better not say anything yet, though.
“John, let’s you and me walk toward Building Twelve.”
“But I don’t go until after morning classes,” he said. He tried to keep his voice steady, but Able heard the fear.
“Lad, it’s Saturday. Just a little stroll. I know it must frighten you, but I’ll be with you.”
John nodded. “I don’t think Piers will stay here if I am not here, too.”
“That’s fine. I have an idea. We’ll stop first at St. Brendan’s and see if we can convince Smitty to join us.”
John gasped. “Smitty? He’s ferocious.”
“I know. Think what an excellent bodyguard he will make. I believe I can convince Headmaster Croker to let him join our little excursion this morning. Let’s go find out.”
While both boys waited on the stone bench that probably had seen its fair share of recalcitrant monks and worried lads through a few centuries, Able told Thaddeus everything that had happened yesterday. He saw all the dismay on the headmaster’s face, and the anger at foul treatment that went far beyond any punishment of French prisoners.
“There’s something havey-cavey about all of this,” Able concluded. “I can’t figure out what it is yet, but I have my suspicions. First, though, I mean to employ Smitty as a bodyguard to escort John Mark to and from the block pulley factory every afternoon.”
“Smitty? I pity anyone who tries to interfere with him,” Thaddeus said promptly. “I can pay him well, but he’s a thug and a blackguard and...”
“…and he excels in seamanship,” Able added smoothly. “You should see him when he takes the helm of the Jolly Roger.” Oh, he could do this. “I need a thug.”
He thought of that gray morning in early autumn when the rough-looking boy who claimed to be only twelve was found curled up at St. Brendan’s front door. “I want to be a sailor,” he had announced to Able and Headmaster Croker. “My name’s Smitty and that’s all I’m going to say.”
So it was. Even Headmaster Croker knew this enigmatic lad was not a baited bear to poke.
Smitty had no objection to this early-morning duty, even though it was Saturday and the Gunwharf Rats had permission to sleep until eight of the clock.
“After noon mess, and after class at four, you will escort John Mark to and from Building Twelve near Gunwharf,” Able said as the four of them walked past the bakery and slowed down. “A shilling a week.”
Smitty nodded. He wasn’t much for conversation.
John Mark must have had a sixth sense about Ezekiel Bartleby, who spotted them and joined them on the street. He looked over his shoulder at his shop. “Can’t let my ball and chain see this, but here you are. A man has to keep up his strength.”
The factory ghost’s eyes widened when the baker pressed a macaron in his hand. Even Smitty was suitably impressed with the macaron.
Able reassured Ezekiel Bartleby that Mrs. Six was going to be fine, but she had been frightened.
“Master, if I ever see your wife running down the street like a crazy person, I will stop her,” he told Able, after doling out the rest of the macarons.
“You can try,” Able said. “We’ll pass by here again in a while. If you had some petit fours, Mrs. Six would probably consume them all. I’ll pay, of course.”
“You can try,” the baker said in turn, and went back into his shop.
The wharf where the water hoys docked was deserted. The barrels had been stacked neatly, everything in order, waiting for the requisition to fill them and sail out to the prison hulks in the harbor.
Able sat down on the bench by the kegs. He knew John Mark didn’t want to stop there at all, but he patted the spot beside him. Even little whoever-he-was looked around, uneasy. Only Smitty seemed unconcerned, but he hadn’t been there yesterday.
Able couldn’t help himself. He looked into the water, remembering every terrifying moment of leaping in, groping in the darkening water as the light faded, desperate to find his wife. It might have been seconds ago that he flailed about and grabbed handfuls of her hair. He wondered that she hadn’t complained about a sore scalp this morning.
Stop it, he told his brain. He turned to John and put his arm around the boy, who melted into his side as though he belonged there. Perhaps he did.
“What do you remember about yesterday right here?”
“I don’t want to remember,” John whispered.
“I know, but you must. We have to understand what happened,” Able said, feeling like a perfect churl to ask. “Please try. Why did you even stop here? It’s not directly on your path.”
Silence for a long moment. He knew John Mark was thinking, because he knew St. Brendan boys obeyed orders.
“They were laughing,” he said finally. “I wondered what was so funny.”
“What were they laughing at?”
The lad started to cry. Able held him closer, then gave him his handkerchief.
John blew his nose. He took a deep breath. “They were teasing a man in a yellowy shirt who tried to climb out of the keg.” He stared in the direction of the harbor, barely visible through the tall masts of other ships docked close in. “He was from the hulks, wasn’t he?”
“Aye. He…they… must have been trying to escape.”
“The dock men… held him down and took out another prisoner from the second keg.” He turned his face into Able’s shirt. “Then they started to fill the keg and I ran for Mam.”
Able held him tight. The rain began, softly at first, then a harder cold rain, reminding Portsmouth that March wasn’t through yet. “Do you remember anything else, some small detail that might not even seem important to you?”
Again, the silence. John was a deliberate boy, a thoughtful one. He blew his nose, then wiped his eyes with a clean corner. He sat up suddenly and Able held his breath.
“Do you know what was odd?”
“Tell me.”
“Out of all those kegs, the man with the water hose knew right where to go to find the other man and pull him out. He didn’t hesitate.”
So that’s how it was, Able thought. He turned his attention to Smitty, because he knew, unlik
e Headmaster Croker, just how shrewd a workhouse boy could be. “What does that tell you, Smitty?” he asked.
“There must be a mark of some sort on the keg,” he said.
“Two kegs, and they were nailed down last night by dockworkers, and then pried open by the Royal Marines. Find them.”
Smitty wasted not a moment, walking to the tall kegs, running his hands along each rim. A wooden lid leaned against each keg. Halfway down the row he stopped and angled out one keg, and then another. “These.”
Able came closer. He set the lids with their nails still in place on one keg and then the other. The other kegs had only a few nail holes. These two had many, irregularly placed, enough to keep a desperate man inside from forcing them open. “Help me move these out farther,” he ordered.
Smitty slid one out while John Mark steadied it. Able walked around the keg and stopped. “John, did you bring along your little sketch pad?” he asked.
“Always, master.”
“Copy that, please. And the one on the other keg.”
The boy bent to the task, then held up his tablet. “It’s a C and a P,” he said.
Master, mechanist in training, and formidable thug, they looked at each other. Smitty spoke first. “The water hose man knew which kegs held the men inside, didn’t he, Master Six?”
For all his toughness, Smitty sounded suddenly as young as he really was. He even moved a little closer to Able.
“I believe you have it. That’s what I wanted to know. Thank you, gentlemen. Smitty, you and John can start back to St. Brendan’s.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Able collared the little factory ghost when he started to follow. He knelt down to be on eye level with the plainly terrified boy. “Parlez-vous français?”
The lad couldn’t look at him. Able gently put his fingers under the child’s chin and raised his head. “Bien? Comprenez-vous?”
The waif nodded, his voice barely audible. “Oui, de parle français.” He sobbed, then quickly put his hand to his mouth. “Vas-tu me tuer?”
