I woke Bernie when the rain stopped and we left the washhouse and went back down to the river.
From the quay we could look across and see all the activity around the house in Oswald Street. The fire had been put out, but the crossroads was blocked off by police cars. We could see people scurrying this way and that in the light of the street-lamps, and an inquisitive crowd had gathered by one of the roadblocks on the bridge.
I became a little uncertain about my plan. It would obviously be safer for us to try to leave the city in a day or two’s time, but where were we to hide in the meantime? We had nowhere to go. Moreover, the tide had just turned and the current was now running briskly towards the sea.
I took Bernie with me and we crossed the Jamaica Bridge over the Clyde. Curious onlookers had gathered there, too, but not so many of them—after all, this was still an hour or so before dawn. 414
From the bridge we went down on to the wooden quay built on piles in the river. This took us only a stone’s throw from Moira’s house and we could see the traces of the battle that had raged during the night. Doors had been smashed and windows shattered. The front of the house was scorched and blackened. Police constables carrying sacks and boxes came out through the gaping holes where there had been doors. I held Bernie’s hand tight to keep him calm. None of the policemen around the house noticed us as we crept along the quay under the cover of darkness and the sturdy stone pillars of the bridges.
I peeped over the edge of the quay and saw I’d been right. Simmons’s steam launch was still moored where we’d left it on our return from the Black Cart.
Taking great care, I led Bernie to the ladder. He went rigid when he saw the boat. I stood and held his hand until his breathing settled and then, legs trembling, he climbed down to the launch.
I untied the mooring ropes as silently and cautiously as possible and used a boathook to push us off from the quay. The current caught us almost immediately and within minutes we were already a hundred and fifty yards downstream. None of the people on shore seemed to have noticed us.
Starting the engine was out of the question. At least it was for the moment, as the boiler would have to be fired first. But 415Simmons had left a good pair of oars in the boat, so I rowed the short way out into the main current. Then I took in the oars and lit a fire under the boiler. Fortunately, Simmons had kept his matches in a dry box under the thwart.
Bernie lay down on the boards and pulled a piece of tarpaulin over him. It made no difference from my point of view. As long as we were heading seawards at this pace, I didn’t need any help with rowing. All I had to do was give the oars an occasional touch to keep us on course.
Dawn brought low clouds and a cold breeze from the sea. The fire under the boiler was going well and a profound sense of calm gradually spread through me.
By the time we were level with Queen’s Dock, I’d built up sufficient steam pressure to start the engine.
Even the noise and vibrations of the steam engine failed to wake Bernie. He slept. All the way to Gourock.