The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  The cab clattered along, the driver muttering under his breath. I looked at my watch again. The train would be pulling out of the station in six minutes, and there was no chance of being on it. Even if I managed to get past the murderous sentinels it would have been no trouble for them to get aboard and then have me at their mercy. I shivered at the thought of my battered body being discovered by the trackside somewhere between here and Bath.

  With the train out of the equation I would have to find another, less obvious way of leaving town. Setting sail for America seemed a little drastic but the sea at least held some prospect of escape.

  The cab had travelled some distance when, to my dismay, I noticed that another appeared to be shadowing us. To check my suspicion I asked the driver to make a few superfluous turns and by now accustomed to my eccentric requests he demurred. My dismay turned once again to fear when the cab behind followed our every move. Worse still, the other cab was travelling at some speed and the distance between us closing. Realizing that urgent action was required, I called up to the driver, ‘That cab, it’s following us.’

  He threw a look back up the street. ‘Friends of yours?’

  ‘Not really,’ I replied bitterly, aware that my credit was wearing thin. With nothing else to do I pulled out my purse and emptied the coins into my hand. ‘Here!’ I said, reaching up and pushing a clutch of them into the driver’s fist. ‘And there’s more once you get us away from that cab.’

  The fellow smiled and tapped the brow of his hat with a forefinger. ‘Whatever you say, sir.’ Once again the horse was stroked with the crop and the cab shot forward, the wheel spokes blurring as it raced down a winding street. I held on to my seat as we took the next corner so fast that one of the wheels left contact with the cobbles. I risked a quick glance behind and was perturbed to see that my pursuers must also have crossed their driver’s palm with silver. People scurried out of the way as the wheel rims sent up sparks from the road. After drawing ahead far enough to put us out of sight we entered into a narrow alleyway, where we came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Have we lost them?’ I asked, feeling quite out of breath.

  ‘They’ve gone clear by, sir,’ said the driver as I disembarked.

  ‘How do I get to the harbour?’

  ‘Just round the corner,’ he said, flicking his switch in the air.

  I handed him his payment and offered up my thanks, then once again serving as my own porter, picked up my luggage and headed out of the alley.

  I soon found myself on the packet wharf. It was a relief to join the crowd, where I became just one face among hundreds, my luggage marking me not as a desperate fugitive but just another hopeful émigré.

  I wandered aimlessly for a while, uncertain how to proceed now I had made it to the water’s edge. What was certain was that I was absolutely exhausted and so, fighting my way to the edge of the crowd, I threw down my trunk and, taking a perch, watched porters and sailors herding the crowd as if it were so many unruly cattle.

  I pondered the idea of sneaking aboard, with the hope of getting ashore again before she left the English coast for the open sea. But the chances of getting on without a ticket seemed unlikely, particularly as prospective passengers were now being channelled between barriers from where, with their tickets checked and documents stamped, they would soon make their way up the gangplank. In any case, I didn’t fancy getting stuck on board and ending up in New York. How would I explain that to Sir Benjamin?

  My meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of my two new friends. It had taken them less time than I had hoped to find their way to the wharf. They had split up and were now wandering casually through the crowd, but there was no doubting their malign intent as they discreetly examined every male. By luck rather than judgement I had given myself some time by separating myself from the herd; from here I could see them, but they were too intent on the crowd to look out. But it wouldn’t take long before they set eyes on me.

  I made to stand up but was stopped when a hand clamped against my shoulder from behind. My blood froze. Had I for a fatal moment let one of them out of my sight?

  Twisting my head and looking up, I saw Nate standing over me. His young face was drawn and pale, but his eyes burned with an animal-like intensity. His instructions were clear: ‘Quickly, come with me, back here.’ He picked up my trunk and I followed him through a small door in the side of a shed that backed on to the quay. Ropes and chains littered the floor and a row of huge barnacle-covered anchors lined one wall. A ripped red sail hung from a beam and a half-stitched patch drooped down like a flap of flesh on a surgical patient. Nate gently closed the door behind us and, putting down the trunk, peered through a chink in the roughly slatted wall. ‘Good, they’re still in the crowd. They didn’t see us.’

  For one so young Nate was proving to have a cool head on his shoulders, and although I felt secure in the lad’s custody – this was after all his home turf – I immediately started to fret about his welfare again. ‘You’re getting on the boat, Nate?’

  ‘Only if I can shake those bastards off,’ he replied, without taking his face away from the crack in the wall. ‘Bought a ticket, half an hour ago.’ Now he turned to face me. ‘I was waiting for my chance to board when you turned up.’

  His tone was accusatory and I felt guilty for bringing trouble with me. ‘I’m sorry, Nate. They were waiting for me at the station.’

  ‘I thought they might be. But not to worry. Perhaps I should stay and make sure those murdering brutes get what’s coming to them.’

  ‘No, Nate, that is for the law to do. Your father would want you to go and make a new life for yourself.’

  He pulled out his ticket and looked at the destination printed on it, but with uncertainty written on his face. ‘All right, I’ll go.’

  ‘But before you do, answer me one thing. What is it, that thing they’re after? The package I’m carrying.’

  Nate shook his head. ‘Haven’t a clue. Just bits and pieces made up from plans sent by Mr Brunel. We don’t ask questions, just do the job.’

  Exactly what his father had told me. Whatever the answer, I wasn’t going to find it in Bristol and I did not want to add an extra burden to his narrow shoulders. ‘Enough questions then. Now, we both need to get out of this place.’

  ‘I guess you don’t want to come to America with me?’

  I was pleased that the lad had determined his course but mine was yet to be decided. ‘I need to get back to London, but not by train.’

  The boy turned back to the peep-hole. ‘I can get you out of town.’

  I stepped towards him. ‘How?’

  He moved away from the wall and, picking up my trunk, walked past me. ‘I have friends. Can get you on a coaster this morning. They’ll take you out and drop you off, maybe across to Cardiff. Not exactly good for London, but better than New York.’

  ‘And a lot safer than round here,’ I added. The prospect was appealing but my conscience nipped me again. The boy had already done enough. ‘I don’t want you to put yourself at risk for me.’

  ‘You only do that while you’re here.’ He looked down at the trunk. ‘When you go, they go. They’re not after me, remember.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘It will take them a while to check the crowd out there but we need to move quickly. Got to get rid of this,’ he said, placing his foot on the lid of the trunk.

  ‘Where’s your luggage?’ I asked.

  ‘What luggage?’

  ‘You’re going to America on that ship and you don’t even have a change of clothes?’

  ‘The fire took everything. I can buy new clothes when I get there.’

  ‘You can’t wear the same clothes for two weeks, lad,’ I told him, hurrying over to the trunk, undoing the straps and flipping open the lid, ‘you’re about my size, or at least you will be when you thicken out. Take these things and the trunk. There’s a good suit in here and a few shirts.’

  ‘I can’t take your
clothes.’

  ‘You just said I’ve got to get rid of the trunk – what else am I going to do, throw them in the sea? In any case you’ll look less suspicious with luggage.’

  ‘All right, but we need to move. Where’s the package?’

  ‘In the bag.’

  Brunel’s album had dropped on to the floor when I undid the straps on the trunk. I opened its covers and, gripping the pages firmly, ripped them from the spine. There was no room in the small bag for the album but I didn’t want to abandon the newspaper clippings. I rolled up the pages and stuffed them into the top of the bag. Then I remembered something else. I dug my hands in the trunk and from beneath my clothes, pulled out the polished mahogany box. I tried to stuff it into the bag but it wouldn’t fit. With no time for repacking, I opened the box, took out the pistols and wrapped them in a shirt before putting them in the bag along with the powder flask, bag of bullets and other bits and pieces.

  ‘Don’t bury them too deep,’ said Nate. ‘You may need them before the day is out.’

  I knew he wasn’t joking, but closed them in the bag all the same.

  Leaving the trunk hidden in a coil of rope, from where Nate would collect it later, I followed him to another door on the far side of the building. After checking that the coast was clear we walked out into the street, as brazenly as we dared. Keeping our eyes peeled, we walked for about ten minutes, checking every alley before crossing its mouth and looking back as much as we did forward. Eventually we stepped on to the slippery timbers of another dock. There was a smell of old fish and sea salt, but there was also something else: the acrid smell of fire-char that told me we were not far away from the torched workshop. There were no tall masters here, just the small coasters and sailing barges I had seen the previous evening. There was still a dirty streak of smoke marking the sky up ahead, but fortunately our journey came to a halt before we returned to the scene of the crime.

  We stopped on the edge of the wharf alongside a single-masted barge, her well-worn but recently swabbed deck skirting a large open hold. There was no sign of life on board. ‘Stigwood!’ yelled Nate. ‘Stigwood!’

  There was a stirring within a small hatch directly below us, and a blur in the murky bowels of the boat as someone made their cumbersome progress up a ladder. Then a head appeared, followed by a stocky, sweater-covered torso. A heavily bearded face looked up at us, the man’s eyes widening when he saw who had summoned him.

  ‘Nate, my boy! My God!’ exclaimed the man as he cleared the hatchway, and then, beckoning with a heavily tattooed forearm, ‘Come down. Come aboard, lad.’

  Nate put a foot over the edge and, turning to face me, began his descent of a series of wooden rungs set into the wall of the jetty. ‘The skipper’s a… was a friend of my father’s,’ he said, looking up just as he disappeared over the side.

  I waited for him to step on to the deck before dropping my bag into his waiting arms. Careful to avoid the sliver of water between the boat and the dock, I stepped aboard and Nate introduced me as his friend, ‘Mr Phillips’, and the man to me as ‘Stigwood, master of the Rebecca’.

  We shook hands but Stigwood was understandably more concerned with Nate and the events of the last few hours. ‘A terrible accident – I’m so sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man.’

  ‘It was no accident,’ insisted Nate. ‘My father was murdered.’

  ‘But the fire?’ replied the now perplexed sailor.

  ‘How do you suppose that caused him to end up in the river with his head bashed in?’

  ‘But they said it was an explosion.’

  ‘Did you hear an explosion?’ returned Nate. ‘You must have been here during the night?’

  ‘I was here all right,’ admitted Stigwood with a guilty blush, ‘but with the amount I’d put away last night I’d ’ave slept through the Siege of Sebastopol.’ There was a pause as the truth sank in. ‘But who would want to kill your father?’

  ‘I don’t know why they did it, but I know who did it.’ Nate’s face hardened as his grief wrapped itself in anger. ‘And they’re after us now.’

  Stigwood looked me up and down, wondering, no doubt, why someone in city clothes, no matter how dishevelled, should now be a hunted fugitive. ‘Get below decks, both of you. We’re about to cast off.’

  ‘No,’ said Nate. ‘He goes, I stay. I’m taking the boat to America.’

  Stigwood didn’t seem surprised. ‘Goin’ to stay with your uncle at last, eh?’

  ‘Aye, now I’d best be off.’

  I could swear the boy was gaining years in front of my eyes. ‘Nate, what about them?’ I asked, looking nervously along the dock. ‘Why not stay on the boat? Come with us. You can take the packet later, when it’s safe.’

  ‘The ship leaves in an hour. I know this place and they don’t. They will hopefully have given up on the packet dock by now. And anyway, they’re not after me, not any more.’

  It crossed my mind that I had made a great mistake in leaving the rural surroundings of my father’s house to return to the bustle of the city. I had gone from being harassed by the police, who appeared to think me a murderer in London, to being chased by two murderers in Bath. If I got out of this mess alive then country living would have to be given serious thought.

  Maybe I should just throw the damned package overboard, or even surrender it, but before I had time to turn thought into action Nate had returned to the ladder.

  ‘Wait!’ I yelled, dropping to my knees and opening the bag.

  After pulling out the clumsily rolled cylinder that had once been Brunel’s scrap album, and then my underwear, I hurriedly unwrapped the pistols and placed them side by side on the deck. Then out came the powder flask and the bag of bullets. ‘You ever fired a pistol, Nate?’ I asked, beginning to load the first. At the shake of his head I pressed the button on the flask and dropped a measure of powder into the pan. ‘Then you’ll learn on the job.’ In went the ball. ‘You need to know how to load. The shooting’s the easy part.’ I pulled the rod from underneath the barrel and rammed the bullet home. Nate was standing over me and I kept my head back so as to provide him with a clear view of the process. Loading finished, I set the gun down, picked up its twin and repeated the process. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  I drew back the hammer on the second pistol, extended my arm and pointed the pistol out towards the water. ‘Then all you have to do is pull the trigger.’

  Demonstration over, I gently released the hammer, picked up the other pistol and held them out to him, butt first. Nate hesitated before taking them. He weighed them in his hands just as I had done when I first held them. ‘Pull the hammers back all the way, and then they’re ready to go.’

  He turned a pistol, studying it.

  ‘Is this you?’ he asked, reading the inscription.

  ‘No, that was my father.’

  He looked at me. ‘Was?’

  ‘He died not long ago.’

  He thrust the pistols towards me. ‘I can’t take these.’

  ‘They are yours now. What you do with them is up to you.’

  Nate retracted his arms, cradling the pistols in his palms. Then he held out his right hand. ‘All right, but I’ll only need one of them; you just showed me how to reload and as long as I’ve got two bullets I’ll be fine.’

  I took the pistol from him and he tucked the other into his belt. After emptying a palmful of powder for myself I handed over the flask and half a dozen bullets, which he dropped into his pocket. ‘I’ll be off then. You’d better get going, skipper, they could be here any time.’

  The lad raced up the ladder and, on reaching the quay, took a last glance down at us.

  ‘Nate, I will do all I can to do the right thing by your father, see that his killers are brought to justice – that much I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the boy, before stepping back out of sight.

  ‘Always been a strong one,’ said Stigwood.

  ‘H
e’ll need to be.’

  Stigwood stepped towards the edge of the hold and yelled, ‘Gus! Where are you? Get topside and cast off.’

  Stigwood’s mate was not much older than Nate, and he jumped up on to the deck with all the agility that was the blessing of his youth. ‘Right oh, skipper,’ he said cheerfully as he scampered up the ladder. The fore and aft hawsers were thrown down on the deck and the boat immediately began to drift away from the security of its berth. Gus hurriedly climbed halfway down the steps and then with a much-practised flourish jumped back across the widening ribbon of water on to the boat.

  The skipper took the tiller while Gus unfurled the sail, pulling on ropes and tying them off. Canvas flapped and then filled as we came into the wind. I watched the dock recede in our wake. There was no sign of Nate, which was fortunate as two figures were now standing near the top of the ladder. We had pushed away just in the nick of time.

  ‘You’d better get below,’ said Stigwood, watching from the helm.

  I shook my head. ‘I want them to see me. It will take pressure off Nate.’

  They were looking around, checking for any sign of their prey on the dock. For once eager to attract their attention, I cocked the pistol, raised it into the air and pulled the trigger. The report carried loudly across the water and both men turned to look at the boat. I picked up the bag and held it triumphantly above my head, not wanting to leave them in any doubt as to where the prize lay. My gloating had the desired effect and they began to run across the dock, following our course down the channel. Then, realizing it was hopeless, they stopped, and one of them reached into his coat, pulling out an object that I knew to be a pistol. But before he could raise it to fire his companion pushed his arm back down and the weapon was returned to its place of concealment.

  Dropping the bag on to the deck, and with shaking hand leaving the pistol on top of it, I walked back to Stigwood, who was casually leaning on the tiller as though this happened every day. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Up the Severn to Gloucester. That do you?’