Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  Eventually the earth dyke on their right ended in a cluster of ramshackle cottages separated by plots of wasteland. They were scrubby forlorn little dwellings at the outermost fringe of the city. As the wherry progressed, the gaps between the houses disappeared until there was a continuous frontage of wharves, cranes, sheds, storehouses. Squeezed between them were the dingy run-down homes of dockworkers, sailors and labourers.

  From time to time the oarsman nearest to Hector stopped rowing, produced a leather bottle and took several gulps. After a gassy belch, he passed the bottle on to his companions. Judging by the smell of the man’s breath he was drinking beer.

  During one of these pauses the customs searcher leaned forward and tapped Hector on the knee. It was evident that he had identified Hector as a newcomer to the capital.

  ‘Know what we Londoners call that?’ he asked, nodding towards a nearby dock.

  In a gap between two moored barges was a light cargo crane with a rope and pulley, its arm projecting over the water. Hector could see nothing unusual about it. ‘A hoist?’ he suggested.

  ‘A derrick!’ The searcher grinned, showing bad teeth. ‘It’s for stretching the necks of those that the Admiralty Court condemns, pirates and the like. That’s Execution Dock.’ He settled back on his seat with an air of ghoulish triumph. ‘Named after hangman Thomas Derrick in my great-grandfather’s time.’

  The wherry entered a final stretch of the river, and all at once Hector recognized the scene in the painting on the wall of the Company’s council room in Surat. To his right was the massive bulk of a castle and up ahead the Thames was crammed with vessels. Some were riding at anchor waiting their turn at the quays. Others were rafted side by side in front of tall warehouses. Beyond the forest of their masts a row of houses apparently spanned the river itself. Beneath them was a glimpse of the pillars and arches of a bridge. The place was bustling with movement. Wagons were collecting and delivering their loads to the quays. Crates, sacks and barrels were being shifted between the ships and the warehouses. Dozens of small boats, painted red and green, hovered on the fringes, waiting for hire. The longest, busiest quay was dominated by a long, official-looking building that had the appearance of a customs house. They had reached London Pool, the head of navigation.

  Their oarsmen swore and shouted insults, jostling and bumping other boats aside, as they forced a passage to the landing steps. They deposited their passengers ashore, and Hector and Jezreel followed Phillips and the customs searcher through the scrum of shirtless, sweating dockworkers stooped under sacks or pushing handcarts and wheelbarrows.

  ‘Send the customs bill to East India House. They’ll deal with it there,’ Phillips told the searcher. Addressing Hector he said, ‘Follow on close. I wouldn’t want to have to tell your wife that I had lost you.’

  Turning on his heel, he shouted, ‘Chair!’

  ✻

  It was now mid-afternoon and a line of towering thunderclouds was forming to the west of the city, though there was no immediate threat of a downpour. Nevertheless, the two burly men carrying Phillips in his sedan chair set off at such a brisk pace that Hector and Jezreel had to half-run, half-walk to keep up with them. Hector gave no thought to trying to escape. Phillips had reminded him that Maria and Isabel were hostages to their good behaviour.

  An eddy of breeze brought another strong whiff of putrefaction. ‘London stinks worse than Delhi,’ he observed to his friend.

  ‘That’ll be the fish market at Billingsgate. I remember it from my prize-fighting days.’

  Ahead of them the sedan men cut down a narrow alleyway, and there was a warning cry of ‘By your leave!’ as they trotted up behind a dawdling pedestrian. He must have moved aside too late for almost immediately came a shout of anger, followed by a string of oaths and a shout of, ‘Have a care there, you brutes.’

  Jezreel flashed a grin at Hector. ‘Everyone in London is in a hurry.’

  Judging by the twists and turns of their route, the sedan men were taking the shortest way to their destination. The streets they chose were barely wide enough for wheeled vehicles to pass one another. Anyone on foot had to avoid random scraps of rubbish and at the same time try not to step into the open central gutter. Scaffolding projected out into the road from half-built houses, and piles of cut stone, timber and sand provided further obstacles. It was evident that a building boom was in progress, and London was thriving. Yet as far as Hector could tell, the only people in the street were domestic servants on their errands, carriers making deliveries, labourers, costermongers and a number of ragged beggars.

  ‘I don’t see anyone who looks prosperous and rich, not like the omrahs,’ Hector commented as they overtook a water carrier toiling along with small steps, his knees half-bent under his load. A wooden tub of water hung from each end of the yoke across his shoulders. Their contents occasionally slopped out on the roadway, leaving a trail of damp marks that rapidly evaporated in the sun.

  ‘Everyone who can afford to do so has left the city and gone to their country houses,’ Jezreel told him. ‘They fear that bad air spreads fevers and disease.’

  A strange-looking figure pressed himself against a wall to avoid being run down. Despite the heat he was dressed in three shabby coats, one on top of the other, and a stack of half a dozen hats was balanced on his head.

  ‘That one should be in the madhouse.’

  Jezreel laughed. ‘He sells second-hand clothes. He’s wearing his stock in trade.’

  ‘I’d prefer to visit a tailor than to wear someone’s cast-offs.’

  ‘Most Londoners would agree with you, but they haven’t the money. They love dressing up but they can’t afford the prices. New cloth is expensive, so they make do with hand-me-downs.’

  Which was why the East India Company shipped bales of Surat calico a third of the way round the world, Hector thought to himself. No wonder the merchants were desperate to appease the Great Mogul if cotton goods bought cheaply in Hindustan were being sold for a fat profit on the London market. A £500 reward for the capture of Henry Avery was a trifling outlay when they were also enriching themselves from the sale of silks, pepper and other luxury items. He jogged along behind the sedan chair, imagining how he would spend the reward. Split with Jezreel, the sum should be enough to keep him and his family in modest comfort while Isabel was growing up. If he invested the capital wisely there might even be enough to provide her with a dowry.

  Sooner than he expected, the sedan turned out of a narrow passageway and on to the broader thoroughfare. Even if the sedan-chair carriers hadn’t stopped and set down the chair, he would have known East India House among the other mansions. Thirty feet above the ground a large merchant ship sailed boldly across the front of the building. The vessel was the centrepiece of a brightly coloured tableau of prosperous foreign commerce. Two smaller ships floated on the same painted waves, heading over the horizon and into a pale blue sky. The building’s parapet had been extended upward to accommodate the picture, and a pair of immense wooden dolphins, gilded and smiling, frolicked on the upper corners of the building. Presiding over this idealized scene was the carved statue of a man, three times life size. Wearing the working clothes of a seaman he stood feet apart, one hand on his hip, the other holding a walking stick, as he stared confidently ahead.

  Hector craned back his head taking in the rest of the building’s decoration. Between mullioned windows on the third floor was fixed a large shield with the royal coat of arms. A second shield on the floor below displayed the same company seal that he had seen behind Annesley’s chair in the Council Chamber of Surat. Flanking this were more than a dozen smaller shields, extending across the width of the building. Some were still blank, awaiting their crests, others had coats of arms that he presumed belonged to major investors and officeholders of the Company. The overall effect was an unblushing statement of wealth and power.

  Phillips had got out of the sedan chair and was paying off the carriers. ‘I’m the captain of Maynard, newly arri
ved from Surat,’ he informed a doorman in crimson livery. With a quick backward glance to check that Jezreel and Hector were on his heels, he led them inside India House.

  The harsh glare of sunshine in the streets made the lobby seem very dark and gloomy. Daylight struggled to get past the iron bars that protected the small windows in the thick walls. Hector guessed that the ground floor of East India House was designed to discourage break-ins and burglars and to resist an angry mob. Fortunately the thickness of the walls also kept out the heat, and the large room was pleasantly cool.

  ‘Wait here,’ Phillips said, before crossing to a stairway in the far corner, and disappearing up to the next floor. Hector and Jezreel were left under the mistrustful oversight of two footmen stationed just inside the doorway.

  They waited for more than an hour, seated on a bench and watching the day’s business coming to an end. Junior clerks clattered up and down the stairs with folders and ledgers, and disappeared into back rooms apparently used for storage and archives. A few messengers called in at the street door with deliveries or to collect packages. The only person to give them more than a passing glance was a portly middle-aged fellow wearing a frothing full-length blond periwig. The coat of his lilac velvet suit was unbuttoned to display a brocade waistcoat stretched across an ample paunch. Stockings of the finest white silk showed off plump calves, and his jowly face spoke of good food and much drink. He exuded the air of someone comfortable with his own success and not afraid to show it. The attendants at the door sprang to attention as he came down the stairs and bowed him out into the street. Shortly afterwards the building began to empty as the company’s employees left for their homes. Hector was beginning to think that he and Jezreel had been forgotten, when Phillips at last came down the stairs.

  He was accompanied by a lean, trim man of about Hector’s own age and height. Everything about him was an inconspicuous brown. The plain coat and breeches were the colour of dead leaves; his eyes were dark and slightly hooded; and the long loose hair that reached to his shoulders was mousey brown beginning to turn grey. The expression on his narrow face was watchful and reserved though there was a hint of purpose in his brisk stride as he came briskly across the lobby. Hector did not know what to make of him.

  ‘These are the two men, Lynch and Hall,’ Phillips informed his companion as Hector and Jezreel got to their feet. ‘Both sailed with Avery and should be able to identify him.’

  The newcomer was softly spoken but his voice held a firm edge. ‘I will make sure that the company knows how helpful you have been, Captain.’

  Phillips turned to Hector and Jezreel. ‘Mr Lockwood has charge of you from now on. I must get back to my ship.’

  ‘What about Maria and Isabel? What happens to them?’ Hector demanded, alarmed by the note of finality in Phillips’ voice.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lynch,’ intervened Lockwood. ‘Captain Phillips has explained the situation to me. We have a short journey to make and, if all goes well, you will soon be reunited with your family.’ He tilted his head slightly, assessing the two men standing in front of him. ‘I’m hoping you’ll introduce me to one of your old shipmates. If we start out now, we can use the last hours of daylight to make some distance from London.’

  ✻

  Two matching roans stood between the shafts of the superb carriage waiting outside. Their coats shone with brushing, and their hooves gleamed with fresh oil. Fine lines of gold leaf picked out the flourishes of scrollwork on lacquered door panels, and the glossy black paint on the folding step looked as if no one had ever set foot there. ‘Not mine,’ said Lockwood noting Hector’s reaction to the sight of such resplendent transport. ‘Loaned by Sir Jeremiah, who you might have seen leaving earlier this evening. He’s on the court of directors and tidying up this unfortunate misunderstanding with the Mogul.’ He climbed into the carriage and settled himself facing the rear, then gestured at Hector and Jezreel to take their places opposite him. Padded upholstery of maroon calfskin gave off an aroma of wax and neat’s-foot oil.

  The carriage began to move at once, and over the noise of steel-shod wheel rims rolling on paving stone, Hector heard a shout. It was the doorman from East India House calling for a sedan chair for Phillips. It occurred to him that he should have asked Maynard’s captain to carry a message to Maria.

  Lockwood was in a hurry, that was clear. The driver of the carriage was pushing his horses as fast as was safe, taking advantage of the fact that the streets were emptying now that it was late in the evening. Hector watched for any signs that would tell him more about the man who would now decide his fate, and Jezreel’s. Lockwood had leaned back and his face was in shadow. Only when the carriage lurched, jolting him forward, could his features be seen clearly in the light slanting in through the carriage window. There was a severity in the set of his mouth, the thin lips pressed together, and his eyes, whenever Hector met his gaze, were hard and probing. His self-confident composure and the way he remained focused were unsettling. He reminded Hector of a predatory animal that would be merciless when it pounced. Lockwood, he concluded, would be a dangerous adversary.

  Hector could tell that they had turned south and were heading back towards the river. The long-awaited thunderstorm broke as their carriage joined the line of vehicles and pedestrians queuing to use London Bridge. The rain suddenly drummed down on the roof of the carriage, and Hector felt sorry for the coachman and his assistant huddled in their capes. Before the carriage was returned to its owner, they would have to spend many hours restoring their vehicle’s glossy sheen.

  Their progress slowed to a crawl as they were funnelled across the bridge, and Lockwood, who had stayed silent until now, took out a notebook and pencil from an inside pocket of his sober coat.

  ‘Tell me all about your days as a member of Avery’s company,’ he began.

  Hector and Jezreel exchanged glances.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who speaks first,’ Lockwood said. ‘I need to know everything, however trivial, that will help me build up a picture of Henry Avery.’

  ‘You’d better listen to Hector,’ Jezreel told him. ‘He got to know Avery much better than I did, helping him with navigation and the like.’

  ‘But you would recognize Avery if you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then give me a description.’

  Jezreel shrugged. ‘Middling height. Fair complexion. I think his eyes were grey. Didn’t look like a seaman, though he was a good one, more like a shopkeeper.’

  ‘Can you remember any of his particular habits?’ Lockwood asked. ‘Did he drink a lot? Smoke? Speak with a local accent that you could place?’

  ‘Didn’t drink much, and never smoked as I remember. His accent was from England, not from the colonies, that was certain. But from where I couldn’t tell you.’

  Jezreel lapsed into silence.

  Hector had been staring out of the window, listening to what Jezreel was saying. The carriage had crossed London Bridge so slowly that he was able to look down through an occasional narrow gap between the houses on the bridge. Heavy raindrops pitted the surface of the river and sodden dockworkers were still handling cargo, trying to complete as many tasks as possible before their overseers called a halt. A group of older men had assembled in the lee of the customs house, trying to stay out of the rain until they came on duty – nightwatchmen whose job was to prevent pilfering of goods during the hours of darkness.

  ‘Lynch, I’d be interested to hear what you have to add to Mr Hall’s description of Henry Avery.’ Lockwood’s words broke into his thoughts.

  Hector looked across at his questioner. He had managed to place Lockwood. ‘You’re a thief-taker, are you not, Mr Lockwood?’

  A flicker of amusement appeared on Lockwood’s face. ‘That is correct, Lynch. Sir Jeremiah has instructed me to find and arrest those responsible for the attack on the Mogul’s vessel, Ganj-i-Sawa’i.’ He allowed himself a sardonic smile. ‘I have his full authority, ample resources and the c
ontract is open-ended. It continues until either Henry Avery is proved to be dead or he is in front of the Admiralty Court charged with piracy.’

  ‘And you will collect the five hundred pounds reward?’ Hector ventured.

  Lockwood dismissed the suggestion with a grimace. ‘You misjudge me. The five hundred pounds reward is something that I proposed to the Court of the Company, via Sir Jeremiah. I do not expect to claim it myself. It is a device to flush out the elusive commander of Fancy who, according to what I’ve heard, may have returned to this country.’

  ‘So you have a network of informers.’

  ‘Indeed I do. I regard them as greedy and untrustworthy, and they mingle mostly with the criminal fraternity of London. Avery does not belong to that class, and he could be anywhere. So the search for Avery requires a bait sufficiently large to get other fish to swim to the surface.’

  The carriage was speeding up again as it left the bridge behind. It lurched and swayed, making writing impossible. Lockwood paused to close his notebook and slip it back into his pocket. ‘Of course the size of the reward also reflects the gravity of the offence he and his company committed.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds should be enough to bring in all the information you need.’

  Lockwood gave a dry laugh. ‘You can’t imagine the number of sightings of this notorious pirate that have been sent in. There will always be those liars and tricksters who hope to pick up easy money. Those are the ones who seek part payment in advance.’

  ‘And not on this occasion?’