He passed a set of sulfur sticks to Jenny, and marched off, a rhinoceros clopping down the pier.
Jenny descended the ladder into the punt. “All’s clear.”
* * *
—
Jack was sitting in his own punt—across the river. He had watch’d the Poor Maria plow up the Thames, the centinel-punts fanning behind. He had watch’d, too, Jenny make her way down the pier. Watch’d Bess slip into the punt. Watch’d the two of them wait ’til the centinel-punts were navigating around an oncoming tugboat, then climb the ladder to the pier-top and board the ship.
What he sought to attempt was impossible, and yet—what, now, was the difference between leaping to his death from the Tower walls and failing spectacularly at a spectacular heist. The punt rocked back and forth in the waves thrown off the churning waters around the Maria. Sunlight flash’d off the river in blinding Pulses. Centinel-punts zipp’d back and forth along the sides. He fought the nausea rising in his gut. Remov’d his cloak and boots. Rolled up his sleeves. Pulled his file from his pocket, gripp’d it tight in his right hand. Pulled a set of nail piercers from the other pocket—held them in his left.
And stepp’d into the Thames.
All the years of his Thames-trick: imagining the press of cool water around his ears, the peacefulness of riverlife. But never had he anticipated the thudding Fear of the Underwater. The Thames was Dark—the water murky with offal and coal-silt and thick fronds of seaweed or linen scraps, or something he didn’t want to know, brushing against his face.
And there was a smell. Rotted oysters and feces. There was Silence, there was Smell, and there was terrible Cold.
Jack was preternaturally able to hold his breath. He’d held it nearly every living second of his life, after all. Held it against the bandages that had cross’d his chest for so many years. Held it against the Terror of the Polhem Lock. Against the agony of the Demon nailing spikes into his spine at Kneebone’s. He was good at holding his breath, and so he held it in long, deep gulps as he headed for the ship, surfacing silently several times and dipping back down.
But the Thames was broad and the centinel-punts were many. He was about to surface for the fourth time when the Shadow of a centinel-punt darken’d the water above his head. And then another. Three centinel-punts were circling above him like lazy, big-bellied sharks.
Jack gulp’d harder on what air was left in his lungs and dove deeper, swimming hard for the Poor Maria. As he gulp’d, he drew down some water too.
Instantly his lungs were bursting with the combination of water and air. He scrabbl’d at the water, dragg’d himself forward, and pulled free from the Shadow of the punts. But he was sinking down more quickly than he was moving forward. The water was suddenly much darker and he could not see the bottom. Or, his vision was going black. Or both.
All he could think was: Bess. Bess.
He would die under the water and she would never know. Perhaps she would think he had run off. That he’d taken up with someone else. She would never know how he woke that morning and several times that night into phantom-senses of her Heat, the soft of her breasts on his Emancipated chest, her close musky Breath.
His vision pinhol’d to a speck. He let himself float down. He would die in the same condition he was in before her—a dog of Shame and Sorrows.*1
And then his feet touch’d sand. A bar, a hillock. The riverfloor was rising here—his feet moved up the bar and towards the waterskin, which brightened, near’d.
It was an eager.
The Thames had eagers.
Some kind of wall—some huge, looming wall was just before him. He crashed against it in Relief—the hull of the Poor Maria—and now his tears mix’d with riverwater as he lift’d his mouth to the edge of the river’s skin and cough’d and wheez’d—and breathed deep.
Then dipp’d his lips below again.
His fingers found minuscule cracks in the wooden planks, into which he fix’d the nail-piercers with his left hand, anchoring himself to the ship.
He brought the tip of his right index finger just above the waterline, tracing the grain towards a joint, then drove the file in his fist into the seam between the wood and the hinge. He dragg’d down and felt the wood give way. Pulled another board free, hoist’d himself briefly above the water and lunged through the gash. The splintered wood ripped open the backs of his thighs and calves—his left in particular seemed cut near to the quick—and he landed inside.
He stood, shaking. Assess’d himself. Blood was streaming down his legs, mixing with foul riverwater in a Pool at his bare feet.
He stagger’d to the top deck—where the trunks and casks of elixir would be waiting to be unloaded.
* * *
—
The sentiments that cross’d Bess’s face when she saw Jack emerge from the hold—still gasping for breath, cover’d in blood, and with Thames-water pouring off him in sheets—onto the deck were multiple. An incoherent pile of Expressions matched only by another incoherent pile crossing Jack’s own.
Surprise, unsurprise, anger and Panic were shared by them both.
And also, though likely for different reasons: relief.
* * *
—
The decks were a Chaos. Bess had her hands on her hips. Jenny was racing around anxiously, opening casks and running her hands through her hair.
“Look, there’s nothing here—” Bess waved at the trunks and casks gaping wide. Empty. Not a single speck of elixir. Not even loose goods. No linens, silks, liquors, molasses, lavender, cardamom, cumin, or turmeric. No salt cod, candlesticks, utensils, tin cups, or wine.
Jack’s heart fell from his throat to his heels.
“Can you hear anything? Any commodities? Anything?” she asked.
Jack lay dripping on the deck, his ear flat to the boards.
He look’d up at her. Water dripped from the tangle of grizz on his chin onto the planks. “There’s no sound.”
“No sound up here or no sound—”
“No sound at all. No voices. Nothing.”
In fact, he’d already been troubl’d by this strange silence. From underwater, Jack had anticipat’d the din of the commodities and elixir to Rise as he approached. He’d braced himself for the hollow ghostly hum, the gabbing and screeching, the garbled roar. He’d told himself the Silence was owed to the muffling of the water.
But there truly was nothing on board the ship.
Jenny wiped her hands onto her skirts, affecting an exaggerated nose-wrinkle. “Well this’s a pickle.”
Then Jack press’d his ear down again. In fact, a muffled sound was emanating from the lower decks.
“Ahh—” Winced, listening hard. “Something. Tho’ I can barely hear it.”
Bess glanced down the dock.
Several constables were patrolling towards the edge like feverish ants.
“The trunk,” she hiss’d. “ ’Til they turn ’round.”
Jenny took this moment to dart off. Jack caught a glimpse of her hair—silked dark in the low light—as she disappeared through the hatch.
Jack and Bess shot into an empty trunk just as the constables’ boots reach’d the edge of the dock.
He clos’d the lid over them.
His heart was Thudding wildly. She smell’d—so Bess. He stifled a sob in the back of his hand.
The cloudlight filtering through the slats was a sickly Gray, and the air, blooming off the carrion-and-feces-thronged riverwater creat’d a vicious, stenchy fog that seep’d through.
In fact, he could have stay’d forever in the stinging, foul brew with Bess against him. She wasn’t softening into him, but she wasn’t ball’d up into herself either. That seemed, if not promising, at least not damning. She was breathing quiet but shallow against his chest. He had the urge to hold her tight against him.
Bu
t when they heard the constables’ voices fade down the dock, she blast’d up out of the trunk and continued searching through the other casks on deck.
And what is Jenny up to? thought Jack. Getting to the elixir, no doubt. And destroying it, as Bess plann’d?
Further, it seem’d as if the sound had gone somewhat Silent. This concerned him.
He shambl’d as quickly as possible on his bleeding calves across the deck, and down the hatch.
* * *
—
In the lower hold, the brine of the river became more piercing.
It was mix’d with something more fetid still—something Marinated in small rooms. Something that’d bred a deep, moldy, bitter Aroma. It was the smell of improperly cured animal hide. Or the Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, floating down the open channels of the sewers on a hot day.
But now here the sound had returned—at closer range. Jack followed it, limping—his gashes had begun to seize up and ache—down the narrow hall.
Light drift’d in slow, sparkly Motes through the cracks in the ceiling boards, filter’d down from the topdecks. Jack strain’d to see, following his nose down the scent-congested hallway.
And where was Jenny.
He poked open a door to one of the berths. The smell in the room was awful. As the dark fizz’d to a lighter gray, Jack made out several wooden tables. For butchering? This must be where they slaughter’d the cows and chickens during the trading journeys. Explain’d the smell, at least. He shut the door.
There was an overwhelmingly gravelike effect to the hold. As he pressed down the hall, the ship listed. Were they sinking? Drifting to the bottom of the river, the seadark Vale of the Thames floor? He thought of the hole he’d bored to enter. But it was above the waterline.
Still, he hasten’d down the hall, swamp’d with an animal fretfulness.
The sound was coming from a gunpowder room. Jack knew this because it was fronted with a thick door cloaked in water-soaked drapes.
He threw his weight against it and pushed. The door was cold and immobile against his shoulder. Pushed again, and it creak’d open a hair. As it did, an acrid metallic Scent pour’d out; Jack breathed in choking gulps.
“Bess?” Jenny call’d out.
Jack tried to say, “It’s Jack,” but the Scent claw’d at his lungs. He coughed and sputter’d, forcing the door further. He managed, “Ack.”
Jack heard Jenny whimpering.
“Jack?” Jenny’s voice again, this time smaller, even.
Jack pushed harder. But the soaked drapes were jamm’d into the floor, acting as a stopper. It wouldn’t budge and he couldn’t squeeze ’round. He fell to his knees, pulled a file from his pocket, and started working at the hinges.
He search’d for a crevasse in the screwheads. The screws were so rusted out by sea-air that they had lost their grooves. The Ocean winds would do that to lesser metals. Jack calculat’d this must be an alloy—the shipowners undoubtedly having thought to save money, but soon they would rust to the point where the door would be unworkable. And the shipowners would have to invest in entirely new doors. So, not a money-saving decision in the long run. But try to tell that to Profiteers.
There was nowhere to apply Pressure to untwist them. He flipp’d the file sideways and began sawing frantically at the hinges. Screwdust piled on his fingertips, which quickly bloodied from being jamm’d into the thin crack.
More mmmmphs and whimpering from within.
“No, Jack—”
He was almost through the hinges.
“I’m tryin’ to say you’ve got to—” The door crash’d inwards, plummeting off its broken hinges, and Jack tumbl’d into the room—catching his already-torn leg on the threshold—a snap, pop, another (larger) warm gush of blood, and now Jack’s left knee and lower leg were pointing in a series of odd, impossible, Several directions. He was on the floor. The pain astonish’d him. He look’d up, immobile. Jenny was finishing her sentence—“Go. You’ve got to go”—but her face show’d how Unattainable she realiz’d his going now was. He look’d back down at himself. Blood was pooling ’round his bent leg. He dragg’d himself half-upright, leaning against the wall. Tried to walk, but even the Touch of his foot grazing the floor sent a Cascade of pain.
He turn’d his attention back to Jenny. Ropy dense-haired arms grasp’d her pale wrists. He had one moment of confused Inability to make sense of what he was seeing—then began to recognize a bespectacled huge face behind hers.
“Jack!” the erudite voice call’d out. “We were just discussing the principles of Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding.”
The Lion-Man had a book in one hand, and Jenny wrench’d tight to his lap with the other.
Without the intermediary of bars, he Loom’d twice as large as Jack had remembered. His arms and legs were thick muscle, and his neck was dense.
“Ah yes, ‘Of the Association of Ideas, Proposition 12.’ I’ve always found this one to be very suggestive. Are you familiar with it?”
Jack tried to shake no, but movement aggravat’d the blinding pain. He twitch’d his head a bit, side to side.
“ ‘A Man has suffer’d Pain or Sickness in any Place, he saw his Friend die in such a Room; though these have in Nature nothing to do with one another, yet when the Idea of the Place occurs to his Mind, it brings (the Impression being once made) that of the Pain and Displeasure with it, he confounds them in his Mind, and can as little bear the one as the other.’ ”
The Lion-Man whisper’d in Jenny’s ear, quite loud enough for Jack to hear. “Do you know how to interpret this, my dear?” He lift’d his hand off her mouth.
“It means I’ll have a lifelong Aversion to gunpowder rooms and the revolting stench of your breath.”
“While not kind, that is technically correct.” He flashed a smile. “Incidentally, Jack will associate our time together with certain doom.”
“Fuck John Locke.” Jack chew’d each word. There was blood on his teeth and tongue.
“As we speak,” the Lion-Man continu’d, stroking Jenny’s pale arm, “Wild’s men have surrounded the ship. Indeed, they have likely already Custodiz’d your paramour topside. Shortly you will be taken and remanded immediately to the Newgate warden. Where you will swiftly meet your death.”
“W-why would you?” was all that Jack could think to whimper.
“For my Freedom, you fool. Caged, confined, laugh’d at, turn’d object. As any conscious being-turned-commodity would wish, I have long’d for my freedom.”
* * *
—
During this disquisition, Wild’s gang had emerg’d from under the eaves of Blackfriars theater, slid up to the dock off Thames Street, hands in pockets, heads jutting out, full of belligerence and pomp. A flock of ragged, arrogant birds. Wild had nodded to the centinels at the shore, then wav’d his arm, calling the gang forward into the water. They waded into the Thames, swim-skated through the Shallows to a punt.
They row’d out quietly to the Poor Maria.
A thump of ropes along the sides of the ship, and soon Wild’s gang had tumbl’d over the edges onto the decks.
The barrage of footsteps. A scuffle that Jack suppos’d was them accosting Bess. Muffl’d cries. Howls of victory.
The Lion-Man clear’d his throat. “Won’t be long now. Might as well tell you all of it.”
Jack panted in agony; he was glued to his position on the wall. He met Jenny’s eyes.
Help, she mouth’d.
You help me! he mouth’d back.
“Your troubles began the night you killed Evans,” the Lion-Man began. “Eliminating Wild’s partner in crime! Most unfortunate. And then, to add to that, nicking his Supply of elixir. Troubles upon troubles.”
“How do you know any o’ this?” Jack bit the words out.
“Of course, on the night
you arriv’d at the Tower Menagerie, Wild confect’d with me in a scheme against you.”
“If he knew I was there, why not arrest me right away?”
The Lion-Man laughed. “Arresting you in some Unspectacular way wouldn’t be the best use of your downfall, frankly. The process of acquiring a Sentence too long, your gaolbreak skills too accomplish’d. Wild want’d a plan that was far more Profitable. He ask’d me again the same questions Evans had. How we devis’d the elixir, what the mechanisms of its production were. He was urgent about it. Said he and Evans had been nearing completion when he had unceremoniously disappear’d. Wild feared the Worst.
“Without Evans, and with his stash nick’d, Wild was at his wits’ end. The sort of wits’ end that births devious arrangements. After some Discourse, he propos’d that I act as Agent for him. When you inevitably made your way to my cage, I was to let slip Wild’s Intention to rob a Plague Ship. Next, I would suggest to yourself and the good Bess how simple t’would be to effect a scheme of robbery. The purpose of this suggestion was to lead you here to be caught in the Act. As a result, Wild would claim robbery of the ship, receive a reward of Insurance for the plunder from Lloyd’s of London—catch you, finger you for the Deed, and be heralded by all the Town for having nabb’d the Gaolbreaker General himself in the Act. He’d canonize himself Head Thief-Catcher and reap great profit, all in one blow.”
“And take me straightaway to hanging.” Jack’s head fell to his chest. How did I fail to anticipate this? How did Bess fail to anticipate it?
“As per Wild’s provision in the city legal code that anyone discovered on board a Plague Ship be brought summarily to execution to prevent Contagion in the broader populace.” The Lion-Man nodded. “For implanting this faulty scheme in your heads,” he droned on, “I’d be freed by Wild from my Bonds at the Tower Menagerie.”
“But,” Jack point’d out, “there’s nothing on the ship to claim insurance on. Not a single commodity topdecks or below.”
“Admittedly odd,” said the Lion-Man. “However, the materiality of commodities is immaterial to the business of insurance.”
Confessions of the Fox Page 30
