Jessie’s face darkened. ‘I might have a word with that Mr Lynch when I see him.’
I hastened caution. ‘Please do not confront him until this night is over, I would not want him forewarned in any way. Look, you have done your bit to help. Getting Pierre out and pinning his abduction on Lynch is the best way to get even with him.’
‘Very well Mr Reeves, but if I did want a word, any idea where his haunts are in the town?’ I was still a little concerned at telling him too much but needed to keep him on our side.
‘In all likelihood he will be drinking himself stupid at the King’s Arms tonight with his cronies. Probably first thing in the morning, when the Customs office opens, he will turn up with his paperwork, like the well-respected sea captain he is.’
Asif smiled at my sarcasm.
Jessie seemed content now. ‘Very well Mr Reeves, Asif.’
He shook our hands. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
At that he departed and made his way home. I looked at Asif and the Spirit, coming ever closer to the town on the tide. ‘I think I have seen enough of that boat to last me a lifetime. Let us make sure we do our job right at the cellar and find the evidence to put Lynch away for good.’ At that we strode off back to the fort, to make our preparations for the night.
Thirty-Two
Dark Places for Dark Deeds
It was three hours past midnight when Asif and I took the short walk from the fort to the King’s Arms. I had organised some tools to help us – a Davey lamp, jemmy, rope ladder and some other odds and ends. With that equipment, we did not want to be stopped by any overenthusiastic peeler. Luckily the streets were empty. Nobody. No constabulary, or lost sailors; not even the whores who came down with each new ship arrival. It was a still night, so sound would carry easily so we had to be careful. Reaching the King’s Arms, we paused by the cellar hatches. These were the usual route for beer deliveries, and luckily we had the key. There was just enough moonlight to see the dusty keyhole. Gently unlocking the rusting iron lock, we prised the timber flaps open and stared inside. We stopped to listen.
Still no sound.
We had brought a rope ladder, and with Asif taking the weight, I climbed down into the cellar. I made a slight thumping noise as I hit the stone floor but nothing to worry about. The cellar was dark, but I could just make out, all around me, the paraphernalia of a public house. Beer barrels were everywhere, and crates of bottled beer were stacked against the damp brick walls. The cellar was perhaps seven feet to ceiling height so I guessed we could escape by just standing on a barrel, so I bade Asif to come down and dispense with the rope ladder. He manoeuvred himself through the hatch, closing it behind him as he did so, with me underneath him, taking the weight of his body to give a soft landing.
We were now both standing in the cellar; what next? I had brought a small Davey lamp with me, which I lit. It sizzled slightly but I was pleased to see there was enough air in the cellar to make a good light. We could now see more clearly the outlines of the space around us. I had taken in all the information from Carter’s map, which seemed to indicate that the tunnel, if it still existed, would be located somewhere to the east side of the cellar. I gingerly walked over to that area, making sure not to trip on any hidden hazards, and inspected the exposed wall. There were no obvious signs of an opening, no new areas of brickwork which might indicate the bricking up of a tunnel. However, much of the wall was hidden behind a stack of beer crates. I prodded at the crates. They were quart bottles, four to a case. Nothing odd there. Then Asif spotted something. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out that two of the crates, at the bottom of the stack were full of empty bottles, and dusty bottles at that. Why had these been left so long? Bottles had a value. I then noticed that the crates directly above the bottom two were also full of empty bottles. I gently tugged at a crate. I fully expected it to be stuck firm, weighed down by those above but instead it just slid out. In fact, all four crates, on the first and second tiers, slid out without fuss. I could see the crates above the second tier were in fact held up by a hidden shelf, which took their weight. With the crates removed I could see a square of timber embedded within the brickwork, just two feet or so square. This must be a hidden doorway, small in width but big enough for a man to crawl through. The door had some kind of lock. I had no key for it, so set about it with the jemmy. It was an awkward task, trying to wrench this door open while not making noise but eventually it gave, and I was able to open the timber door.
We could now see in front of us a tunnel, slightly wider than the entrance door but still tight. The tunnel, though narrow, was perfectly constructed with brickwork walls and timber boarded roof. It had clearly been there for many years as I noted the bricks were handmade and irregular, not the modern machine-made kind. I hate confined spaces but had to get into it. I crawled in first, followed by Asif. Thank God for the lamp. In the near darkness my other senses became sharper and I began to smell things. I detected the odour of stale food or was it sewage? We crawled along the tunnel noting how unpleasant this space was. After about twenty feet the tunnel went around a ninety-degree bend and then opened out into an underground room, about ten feet square, with perhaps six feet head height. I gratefully got out of the tunnel and stood up. My legs were much relieved to be doing their proper job. I assumed we would now be under West Street itself, but it did not matter. Here in the underground we were in a totally separate world, unconnected to the normality above. We stood there, staring around in the dark, musty, cavern of a room.
That is when I detected a smell.
There was another human being in this space.
It could only be the boy.
I was aware of a presence, so waved the lamp in front of my face to try to adjust my eyes to the dim light. Then I saw him. Lying on a straw bed in the corner, with nothing but a piss pot and a small, unlit candle beside him. I let out the word ‘Pierre’. The boy slowly came to life. His face was gaunt. He was thin and dressed in rags. His face looked ashen. A look of terror crossed his face. I spoke as gently as I could. ‘Pierre we are here for you. Your mother, Marie, sent us, we are here for you.’ The boy looked back in a state of shock and disbelief. His pale face was gaunt, and his eyes were dead – he had already suffered too much. I tried again saying ‘Bonjour’.
In the weakest of voices, he replied, ‘Bonjour’. He was in a state. I walked over to where he lay, and gently helped him to his feet. He was painfully thin, his legs looked as though rickets had set in. Just getting him to his feet was not easy. He smelt of months of not washing. Asif joined me and together we took him under his arms, and started to half walk, half drag him out of that place. I could see the state he was in. His clothes were rotten, and he smelt badly. Hardly surprising but I had to fight back the nausea and concentrate on getting him out of this hellhole.
Asif was a godsend, so strong and completely nonplussed by the situation. We got him into the narrower tunnel, Asif went first with the lamp dragging Pierre behind him with me at the rear, gently pushing him on. It was hard graft pushing and pulling the deadweight of Pierre but eventually we got through. Within a few minutes we were out of the narrow tunnel and into the cellar and able to stand upright again. We got Pierre to his feet, but he could scarcely hold the strength to stand up. Nevertheless, we carried on and got him to the closed cellar trapdoors. Now we would have to somehow manhandle him up into the street. At that moment, there was a tap on the cellar hatch above. I froze momentarily but then with much relief, heard our friend Jessie’s voice.
‘Are you alright down there?’
‘Yes, we’ve got the lad but he’s weak, open the hatch, and help us lift him out.’
Within seconds the hatches were opened, and I could see, by the light of my lamp, Jessie’s smiling face in the darkness. I could also smell the fresh air from the world outside the cellar.
‘I couldn’t sleep, so I came to see if I could help,’ he said
.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, grateful for his presence.
We took the weight of Pierre’s body and lifted him up to a height where Jessie could pull him out. Then standing on a nearby keg, we climbed out.
It was a relief to get out of that hellhole. Jessie closed the hatch. We looked around; the street was still quiet. In a couple of hours, it would be dawn and the knocker uppers would be out, but for now we had the town to ourselves.
‘Let us get him back to the fort,’ I said.
Myself and Asif then tried walking him, with our shoulders under his arms to take the weight, but he was clearly not comfortable with that and his feet dragged on the floor. Asif stopped. ‘I can take him myself sir, he is only light.’ At that he put his arm between Pierre’s legs and lifted him over his shoulder. ‘I will carry him to the fort.’
At that he strode off, clearly unhindered by the boy’s weight. I stood by the cellar door with Jessie and turned to him. ‘Thanks for your help, you don’t need to be involved anymore, we can take it from here.’
Jessie looked at me, his face seemed contorted in pain now. ‘That poor lad, it looks as if he has been stuck in that tunnel for months. How can they have been so cruel?’
‘I know Jessie, it is inhuman, disgusting. Let us hope that they didn’t abuse him as well. This is the dark side of humanity, no doubt about that.’ I added more cheerfully, ‘But you have helped us save him, hopefully.’
Asif was now out of sight making good progress along West Street in the direction of the fort. Jessie clearly had more to say, though I could not tarry long.
‘Do you think that is what those bastards did to my boy, used him like a toy, an animal?’
I replied honestly. ‘I really don’t know.’ Jessie was clearly distraught but gestured towards Asif disappearing with Pierre down the road. ‘You had better make sure he’s safe.’ With that he disappeared into the night.
I could not hang around. I would have liked more time to pacify Jessie and make things better for him, but I had to make sure we got the boy back to the fort safely, so I scampered off in that direction. I need not have worried. Asif seemed to be carrying Pierre effortlessly. So much so that I was out of breath by the time I caught up with them. By now we had reached the fort’s outer door. I opened it with my key and we soon had the boy lying down in the sick bay area. There were no medical orderlies around at this time, so Asif and I sat quietly by the boy. He seemed unable to talk, even react to us normally, but we offered him some water, which he took.
We sat with him for an hour or so until dawn broke. Gordon was up and about early and immediately came over to the sick bay to ascertain the position. He entered the room and a look of deep sadness crossed his face as he saw the gaunt, almost lifeless figure of Pierre.
‘Well done Reeves, you did it! I can see the boy’s in a bad state though. I’ll get the fort’s medical officer in here straight away.’ At that he strode out. We looked down at Pierre; it was not even clear if the lad would live, let alone be in a fit state to hand back to Marie.
The medical orderly was roused from his sleep. He hurriedly set about seeing to the boy. We were asked to leave the room as he did a thorough investigation, or as thorough as you can be when the patient is almost comatose. Ten minutes later we were ushered back in. Gordon had now re-joined us. The orderly was of typical military bearing, his name was Broadhurst, and he had a fine dark moustache which compensated for his receding hairline. He stood six feet tall, and rapier straight.
He spoke. ‘I’m afraid the boy is in a bad way. Clear signs of malnutrition, rickets, some fever, also rashes on his backside. His mental health is also suspect. I am not getting very much response. I can only suggest either hospitalisation, or complete rest and a diet of broth, water, and small portions of food. Perhaps some fruit jelly or similar when he’s ready.’ He finished and stood with his arms clasped behind his waistband. Gordon seemed content with this.
‘Very well Broadhurst, thank you for that. I think, gentlemen, we will keep him here for the time being and follow the regime suggested. Are we all in agreement?’ I was not entirely happy with that, so stated my case.
‘The boy has a mother who is deeply concerned at his whereabouts. Can I contact her and arrange for her to come here?’
Gordon looked slightly awkward, he turned to the medical orderly. ‘That will be all Broadhurst.’ The officer without delay left the room.
Gordon still seemed deep in thought. ‘We have to be careful about how we handle this. The boy being in the fort must be kept secret from the public and particularly the local press. However, I think it would be safe for you to contact the mother to say, in general terms, that her boy is safe, and that a reunion will be forthcoming.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you sir.’
Gordon seemed content now. ‘But please do not give the location of Pierre to the mother, and could you use the post office telegram office. I do not want any publicity about this.’ I smiled. That was enough for now. Gordon made to leave but at the last moment looked back at myself and Asif.
‘By the way, I must congratulate you on what you have achieved. I did not think this was possible, I thought the boy was dead, now I see he is alive, and that is because of your perseverance. May God bless you.’
At this he left the room, leaving me and Asif pleasantly surprised by his kind words.
Thirty-Three
The Aftermath
Within the hour Broadhurst had returned, so relieving myself and Asif. I went back to my room to wash and shave and Asif went off to his work in the grounds – the man was a godsend. I then had some simple breakfast of tea, bread and jam which brought the time around to almost nine o’clock. I was not sure when the post office opened but it should be by now. Government offices, included the Excise House and Royal Mail office, were usually open by nine. So, I set out to walk to the post office, in the town centre. It was a glorious morning; I had not slept but felt elated. I had done it. Now perhaps Marie might look twice at me.
Striding out through the fort door I could see the corner of the Customs and Excise offices, located at the end of a street called The Terrace, which ran parallel to the river. To my left, running at ninety degrees to The Terrace, and climbing up to the town centre, was a tree-lined thoroughfare named Milton Place, which boasted fine, white-rendered Georgian houses along its town side. The morning sun warmed my back. All in all, this was perhaps one of the best mornings of my life. Then, something caught the corner of my eye. Stopped on Milton Place was a brewer’s dray, with the horses drinking out off a stone trough by the side of the road. Surprisingly, and coincidentally, I could see the driver was Jessie himself. I waved over to him but decided not to go and talk to him as familiarity might breed gossip about last night’s affair.
Oddly, he did not wave back to me. Ignoring this, I strode out along The Terrace, passing the Customs House, which was just opening for business. There was something strange though. I thought back. Why was Jessie on the dray on his own – he usually had a second man? Maybe the man was running an errand or something. I thought no more about it. Then low and behold, who should I see walking up the street towards me, but Captain John Lynch and John Bennett. For a moment I froze, then realised they were not that interested in me. They were bringing paperwork to the Customs office. This was often the first port of call for returning sea captains. I decided to front them out if anything was said, so carried on walking. They had not noticed me yet anyway. Then something unexpected happened. I could hear heavy horses behind me. I turned around. Just in time. It was Jessie, with his fully laden dray coming down Milton Place at a gallop. With infinite skill he swung the dray around the dogleg corner of Milton Place, and came into The Terrace. He was moving at a pace and to my surprise, then accelerated further. I could see Jessie now, standing up, whipping the two dray horses. They were now careering down the road at breakneck speed! The air was filled w
ith the sound of the galloping, sweating horses, and Jessie’s whip, urging them on. They shot past my side, narrowly missing me. And the horses were still picking up speed! In front of me, some forty yards distant, were Lynch and Bennett, walking in my direction. Too late they realised what was happening. The dray, now moving at an unstoppable speed, was heading straight towards them!
At the last moment, the horses edged left, but this only made the two men’s fate even more certain. The fully loaded dray slid sideways, with the heavy cart, full of beer barrels, crashing into them. They had no chance. Their bodies were crushed between the cart and the brick wall alongside the footpath. There were cries of agony and shock. The driver was thrown clear, an enormous distance –perhaps thirty feet – crashing into the cobblestones. The bewildered horses seemed to have escaped serious injury but were now in a state of total panic.
I ran down to the scene. Both Lynch’s and Bennett’s bodies were smashed; broken between the cart and the wall. Both must be dead, as their injuries were unspeakable. I looked over to Jessie. He was clearly injured but alive. The whole scene was carnage, frightened horses rearing up, broken beer kegs, smashed wheels, and axles. And, trapped by the brick wall, maimed bodies. In fact, the scene was indescribable.
People came to help. Clerks from the Customs House, passers-by, then eventually solders from the fort. The horses were calmed, sheets were thrown over the dead men. Jessie was taken by ambulance cart to the nearest hospital. I was by now almost wandering around the scene in a state of shock. True, I had often wished Lynch and Bennett dead, but not like this. I could hear people gossiping. Clearly they thought that it had been a case of the horses running out of control, bolting down the terrace. Just a terrible, terrible accident. But I knew only too well what had occurred.
Gordon had appeared from the fort and saw me floundering. ‘Reeves, let us get you back inside. You need some sweet tea.’ I hesitated, then realising Gordon’s words were an order, not a request, I followed him back and he led me to the sanctuary of his office.
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