The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "You sure? It's part of me price. Like I said, fourpence and a gander."

  "Go see for yourself, then. These flippin' stairs are going to be the death of me."

  "Are there rats?"

  "Aye."

  "Oooh, I don't like rats, me."

  And then Sid heard boot-heels on the steps as the woman trotted back downstairs.

  He heard them move off. He waited, straining to catch a voice, a few words. And then he heard grunts and groans and a few wheezy Oh-oh-oh's. Letting out a quick breath of relief, he turned to give Frankie the nod and saw to his alarm that Frankie was shaking. At first he thought it was the strain of the heavy crate, but then he realized the lad was laughing. He'd sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from making noise. His cheeks were shiny with tears.

  "How the hell did she ever find it?" he whispered.

  "Move, will you?" Sid rasped.

  Frankie gave the signal to the men ahead of him, and they were climbing again. He wondered sometimes if Frankie had any nerves anywhere in his body. Guns were not jewelry or silver or paintings. Guns were for killing, and the beaks took a dim view of those who trafficked in them. They'd each get twenty if they were caught, there was a watchman only a floor away, and Frankie was laughing. Sid knew it was because he'd never been inside, never made the acquaintance of men like Wiggs. Most of his men hadn't done heavy bird--only Des. He wanted to keep it that way.

  "Jesus Christ, where were you? Takin' a bleedin' holiday?" Desi said when they finally got back inside the London Wharf. "I saw him come in. Tried to get word to you, but you was already down. O'Neill's here. I heard the motor."

  "It's all right, Des. We had a bit of bother, but we're here now," Sid said, picking his shirt and jacket up off the floor. "Go down and tell O'Neill we're coming, then come back up for the gear," he added, shrugging into his clothes. As he talked to Desi, two of his men went back into the Stronghold, collected rolls of fabric, and leaned them against the wall in front of the hole they'd made. They squeezed back through and carefully nudged the last few rolls into place from the London's side. Then they shoved the crates they'd filled with broken bricks in front of the hole and piled a few more crates on top of those, to hide the damage.

  Sid looked at his watch again and swore. It was nearly two. They should've been out by now. He reckoned they had half an hour at most. Half an hour to get seventy-two crates down six flights of stairs and into the hold of a boat.

  "All right, lads, last leg," he said. "Go fast and go quiet. All the way into the hold just like we planned. Don't leave nothing on the dock." The men nodded. Sid saw that Ronnie was drenched in sweat. Oz had taken off his cap to wipe his brow. Pete was bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. They were played out, and the hard bit was still to come.

  The crates were lifted again and the descent began. At least the weight's going down instead of up this time, Sid thought, that's something. As in the Stronghold, the London's wooden steps creaked and popped under their feet. But unlike the Stronghold's watch, the London's wasn't a problem-- because there wasn't one.

  The London's foreman locked the place up tightly at seven each evening and unlocked it again at six the next morning. He never came by to check the premises during the night. Sid knew that because he'd had Ozzie take a job as a casual hand at the London two months ago. He'd worked there for about six weeks before telling the foreman, Larkin was his name, that he was heading back home to Durham.

  During that time, he'd gained the man's trust. By the end of the six weeks, Larkin had Oz locking up. He thought he was safe with only one key. No one could nick the spare when his back was turned and make a copy. He hadn't counted on the bar of soap in Ozzie's pocket. It had taken him only seconds to make an impression. And it had taken a blacksmith friend only a couple of hours to make a duplicate from it. A bargeman had rowed them to the London's dock earlier in the night and Ozzie had let them in. He would let them back out when they were finished. If they finished.

  When they got down to the first floor, Sid automatically looked for Desi, who was supposed to be stationed by the front door. The fire's glow had illuminated the top floors but it didn't reach the lower ones.

  "All right?" he said into the darkness.

  "All right," came the reply.

  Oz and Ronnie set their crates down and opened the dockside doors. Sid heard the burble of a boat's motor. And then the furious voice of O'Neill, its captain.

  "Jaysus, what kept you? I've been waiting here since half one. T'ought you wasn't coming."

  "Unforeseen difficulties," Sid said, hurrying by with a crate. "The hold open?"

  "No, the feckin' hold's not feckin' open. I was just about to push off."

  Sid stopped dead, forcing his men to stop behind him. "You want the guns?"

  "Aye, but--"

  "Then shut your gob and open the hold. Now."

  O'Neill did as he was told. Everyone put his crate down. Oz and Ronnie jumped into the hold. Sid and Frankie handed down the crates. Tom and Dick ran back inside.

  "Tide's ebbing. I'll never make open water by daybreak now," O'Neill said. "If I'm caught heading to Ireland with guns..."

  "That's your problem," Sid said. "Keep the hold open and keep out of me way."

  Suddenly they all heard the sound of a second motor.

  Sid's guts lurched. "River police. Where the fuck did they come from?" He turned to his men. "Inside. Go!"

  O'Neill made a move to follow them.

  "Not you," Sid said, planting a hand on his chest. "You're staying here. Tell them you've got engine trouble."

  "I'm dead if they see what I've got!" he cried. "What if they search me boat?"

  "See that they don't."

  The sound of the motor grew louder. Sid sprinted across the dock and through the doors. Frankie closed them and locked them. They all huddled behind them, away from the windows, listening.

  They heard the police hail O'Neill and pull up to the dock, lamps blazing. Sid risked a glance out of a small window to the left of the door. O'Neill was rubbing a dirty rag between his hands. "Bit of trouble," he heard him say. "Smoke from the engine. I think I've got her sorted."

  "What's your cargo?" one officer asked. A second eyed the vessel. He put his foot on the gunwale. The boat was riding high. Three crates of guns were nowhere near heavy enough to make her draw.

  "Sure, she's empty now," O'Neill said. "Had a load of mutton out of Dublin. Turned maggoty on me. Didn't half stink."

  The second officer made a face and removed his foot from the gunwale.

  Good lad, Sid thought.

  "Where are you bound?" the first policeman said.

  "Butler's. Unloaded yesterday evening. Should've stayed put till daylight, but a lad I was drinking with down the Ramsgate says there's a fellow at Gravesend wants a load of scythe blades taken to Dublin. I'm hoping I can get to him before anyone else."

  Without warning, the first constable turned toward the building. Sid ducked down, heart hammering, hoping he hadn't been seen. He pressed his back into the wall. He heard footsteps approach, heard the man test the door handle. Light from a bull's-eye lantern spilled into the window, casting its glow across the floor, over crates and boxes. The light disappeared.

  Sid released a breath. A split-second later he jumped as the officer battered on the door.

  "Open up!" the man shouted. "Open up in there!"

  No one made a move. Sid tried to swallow but had no spit. His heart was thumping in his chest, the blood banging in his ears. The constable pounded again. Sid was just about to give his men the signal to run when they heard the second officer say, "That's the London, isn't it? There's no night watch there."

  "You see anything odd while you've been here? Hear anything?" That was the first officer again.

  "No, sir," O'Neill said. "I was belowdecks, though, till I heard your boat."

  "Finish your business and go. I don't want to see you here on my way back upriver."

  Sid c
losed his eyes and breathed a ragged sigh of relief. He heard the po-lice boat's motor engage, the sound of churning water, and then it was gone.

  Frankie opened the doors again, then they all shot back upstairs, fueled by fear. They worked until their lungs were burning and their legs were shaking. It was nearly three o'clock when they got the last crates.

  "That's only sixty-nine in all," O'Neill said. He'd been standing on the dock, counting.

  "You said there'd be seventy-five. You're six short."

  "Three more are coming, that'll make seventy-two," Sid said. "We couldn't get the last three. The Stronghold's watch came in. You want them, get them yourself."

  "I'm holding back some of the money, then. Fair's fair."

  "You do that. And I'll hold back me men. No guarantees, though. There's six of them and only one of me."

  O'Neill spat into the water. He motioned for Sid to follow him and they both disappeared into the pilot house. He unlocked a strong box, took an envelope out of it, and handed it to Sid, who ripped it open and counted the notes. Two thousand quid, as agreed.

  "The Irish pay well," he said.

  "No price is too high for freedom from English tyranny," O'Neill said. "Ireland will be free. English guns will be used against English despots."

  Sid nodded, pocketing the bills, barely hearing him.

  "Malone ...you're Irish, aren't you? With a name like that, you should be giving us the guns, not selling them. You should be working for the cause of freedom."

  "The only cause I recognize is me own, mate," Sid said. He told O'Neill it was a pleasure doing business, then left the boat for the dock.

  It was then that everything went badly wrong.

  As he stepped off the boat, Sid saw Oz and Ronnie running with a crate. Tom and Dick were behind them with another, and behind them was Frankie, carrying the last crate on his shoulder. It was too much for him. He was staggering underneath it. Desi brought up the rear holding the sack of pistols and the tools with one hand, locking the door with the other.

  "Go, boss, go! Get on the boat. The watch's coming," Frankie said.

  "What? Why--" Sid started to ask. The bloody watch never came during the night. They'd watched the place for three weeks running to make sure.

  "The fire. He must've come to check on things. Get on the boat!" he hissed, running past Sid.

  "Wait a minute! You lot aren't getting on--" O'Neill began.

  Sid dipped a hand into his jacket pocket and suddenly O'Neill was staring at a six-inch blade. "You're taking us to the Bark," he said. All O'Neill could do was nod.

  Desi was already on the boat. Oz and Ronnie were stepping over the side.

  "Go! Fucking go!" Sid mouthed, motioning at Tom and Dick.

  They got on, dragging their crate over the gunwale. Now there was only Frankie. He was only a few feet away. Sid ran to him, hoping to take one end of the crate and hurry him along, but just then Frankie stumbled and pitched forward, slamming the end of the crate into Sid's head. Sid lurched backward, blinded by the impact. He took one step back, then two, wind-milling, trying to right himself against the dock. And then there was no dock, only air under his feet. He fell into the water and landed on top of a submerged piling.

  The jagged wood ripped him open. He opened his mouth to scream, but it filled with water and no sound came out. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. He knew he had to surface or drown, but he couldn't move his right arm. Flailing, his lungs bursting, he found the piling with his good hand and used it to pull himself up. As his head broke the surface, he heard his men calling for him as loudly as they dared, panic in their voices. And then he heard something else--the police boat again, distant but ap-proaching. It was on its return trip. They'd taken too long.

  "Get a rope! We need a fuckin' rope!" That was Frankie.

  Sid could see the edge of the dock and the crate still sitting on it. It couldn't be there when the police arrived or they'd all go down.

  "Get him up! Get him up!" Ronnie said.

  "Leave me! Get the crate loaded!" Sid ordered.

  The engine was getting louder. The boat would break out of the fog any second. Sid had released the piling to motion at Ronnie and was now drifting away from the dock. The water around him was darkening with blood. He went under for a few seconds, then bobbed back up. There wasn't time enough to get him up and he knew it.

  "O'Neill, you fucker, where's the fucking rope?" Frankie again. He was too loud. The rozzers would hear him. Sid heard O'Neill push the throttle and was glad of the noise. He motioned at Frankie, who was lying on the dock stretching out his arm toward him, to get on the boat.

  "No, guv," Frankie said.

  "Go!"

  The sound of churning water grew louder. Sid knew he was done for. He was losing too much blood. He'd soon be out of it. And he was glad. Anything, even death, was better than going back to the nick. But his men still had a chance--if only they would take it. He finally saw Oz and Ron-nie get on. He saw Frankie look fearfully in the direction of the police boat. He's getting on, thank Christ, Sid thought. But he didn't. Instead he lowered himself off the dock and into the river.

  "I told you to get on the boat!" Sid hissed at him.

  "Is that what you said, guv?" Frankie said. He slung an arm across Sid's chest and dragged him under the dock just as the police boat pulled up to it. He found a length of half-rotted rope hanging from a piling and grabbed it to keep them from drifting.

  "Dodgy piston, it was! Just shoving off!" O'Neill yelled, pushing the throttle harder. He was churning the water on purpose.

  "Bastard's tryin' to kill us," Frankie growled, bracing against the wake.

  Sid knew he wasn't. He was distracting the cops with the noise so they didn't notice that his boat was drawing more water than she had an hour ago.

  "'Night, officers!" O'Neill called, and then Sid heard his boat pull away. Finally. His men were safe.

  "You hang on, guv," Frankie whispered. "They'll be at the Bark and back before you know it. O'Neill will make that tub fly. Oz'll gut him if he don't."

  Sid nodded. His eyes fluttered closed. He heard footsteps on the dock and then Larkin, the watch, asking the police what happened, telling them he'd heard their noise from inside.

  "Bloke with a dodgy motor," one of the constables said. "Everything all right?"

  "Right as rain," the watch said.

  "You sure? No signs of a break-in? Nothing missing?"

  "Not a thing. She's locked up tighter than a cat's arsehole," the watch said.

  He bade the officers good night and went back inside. The police boat pulled away and Sid and Frankie were left alone floating in the Thames.

  Sid's pain was excruciating, so strong that he knew it would drown him before the water ever did. He was lightheaded now and cold. Very cold. It wouldn't be much longer.

  "Frankie ...," he whispered.

  "Aye, guv?"

  "I want you to know..."

  "That you've always loved me?"

  Sid laughed. He couldn't help it. There were no more worries now. No more sorrows. Everything seemed funny. He'd always thought it would be good to go out laughing. "... the dosh... it's in my jacket pocket. Split it even. Give Gem my share."

  "Give it to her yourself. Tomorrow when you see her."

  Frankie's voice got farther and farther away until Sid could hear it no longer. And then there was no pain, no cold, nothing. Just the black night, the black water, and the black abyss of unconsciousness.

  Chapter 7

  "Condoms?"

  "Never."

  "Dutch caps?"

  "Forget it."

  "Sponges, then," India said, stopping dead in the middle of Brick Lane.

  "I guess you really do want to get sacked," Ella said. "If Gifford twigs, you will be."

  "He doesn't have to find out. We could dispense them quietly."

  "Even if we can get the patients to keep shtum, who's going to pay for them?"

  India frowned. "I hadn't thoug
ht of that."

  "And where are you going to get them? The medical suppliers have them, but they know Gifford and he knows them. If his junior places an order for a case of rubber johnnies, you can be sure he'll be told." Ella pulled India out of the way of an oncoming milk wagon. "Come on. The caff's this way."

  "I can't believe he's so medieval," India said. "How can he object to chloroform? To deny a laboring woman relief in this day and age... it's nothing short of barbaric. Did you hear what he said as we left?"