Chapter Thirty-Five

JAMES’S EYES STUNG from the smoke and ash whipping through the air. He hurried after Vince, with Crabmeat in tow. Debris from the town’s battered and burning buildings clogged the streets. The early morning mist had refused to shift and mixed now with musket smoke. Bodies lay in the roads. Over carts. In shop windows. James had been in battles before but nothing like this. He’d never before witnessed a town at war with itself.

Vince led them through several of the town’s myriad narrow, piss-reeking Entries. There would be no question of him and Vince moving side-by-side through them. In fact, Vince had to turn sideways at several points just to fit through. James struggled in places as well. Only a place thoroughly opposed to planning and without a shred of consideration for its citizens could produce something like these. They begged for criminals to stalk them. They served no other purpose. When the gangs were finally subdued, James decided his first act would be to have the Entries walled up. There would be no hiding places in his Port Knot.

“Stop.” Vince held out his huge hand to James’s chest and pushed him flat against a wall. Vince peered around the corner. “Courant is at the other end of this road. Too many people. Need to cross.” Checking the going was clear, Vince kept his head down and ran across the road. James did likewise.

A shot rang out and whizzed past James’s ear. He shouted. Vince shouted. Some Gunbrides shouted, appearing from a doorway with their muskets levelled. Vince pounced on them in an instant, a tiger in a tricorne. With a smooth uppercut, he cracked the jaw of one and kicked out the knee of another. James lay into the nearest of the gang, pulling the musket from his hand while punching him in the side of the head. He and Vince stood back-to-back, arms raised, fists clenched, ready for the next attack. None came.

“Boxer’s stance,” Vince said.

“I know how to handle my fists,” James said. “I used to do a bit in my school days. It never leaves you.”

Vince led them along an Entry strewn with washing lines to the rear of the Courant offices.

“The window’s been smashed,” James said. “The door’s open.” He held the musket like a club. Without any powder, he had no other use for it. He regretted leaving his sword in his office.

He’d followed Vince the whole way there, not a position he felt comfortable in. If Perty Hancock was indeed after Mr Exeter, it would be James who dealt with her, not Vince. He remained convinced there was some explanation, some reason for her actions. He led the way through the dark and silent newspaper office.

On the first floor, they found Mr Exeter.

“Dead,” Vince said.

Across the room, the body of a young woman lay slumped against a desk.

Vince lifted her head, gently, one thick finger under her chin. “Hawksmoor? Hawksmoor?”

The woman stirred, her lip quivering. “V-Vince?”

James drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the wound on the back of her head. Crabmeat licked her hand, wagging his tail the whole time.

“Hancock,” she said, her words slow and unsteady. “Confessed to paying Quaintance. She killed Exeter.”

James’s heart sank. Vince laid his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. Without a word, Vince lifted Ms Hawksmoor as if she weighed nothing and carried her downstairs. “Will come back for your chair,” he said. “Promise.”

“I’ll take the lead this time, old chap,” James said.

“Main door.” Vince nodded his head toward the front of the building. “Can’t carry her through the Entries.”

James checked outside before waving Vince through. The main road of the town was peppered with people, some injured, some dead. Including a woman lying in the middle of the road. “That’s a C.T.C. sword.”

“Come back!” Vince kept close to the walls and hissed, “James!”

James crossed into the road and knelt by the woman’s body. He glanced at the silver ring on her left hand as he removed the flat cap obscuring her face. He stood slowly and returned to Vince and Ms Hawksmoor. “We won’t be needing a trial after all,” he said.

VINCE CARRIED MS Hawksmoor through the tailor shop to the floral parlour where the former members of the Watch had gathered. Vince ignored them all. James took some cushions for her head and laid them on the settee. She winced but didn’t complain.

“We need fresh dressing for her head,” James said.

“What is this all over the shop floor? Is this blood?” Orla had followed the trail and stood open-mouthed and gesturing wildly.

“Wouldn’t be any if you’d kept your trap shut,” Vince said.

“I didn’t know this would happen. Who is she, and why is she bleeding on my cushions?”

James turned to bark at Orla. “You, girl! Get some bandages!”

Orla pursed her lips. “I don’t work for you! This is my home.”

James barked almost loud enough to make Vince flinch. “Now, damn you!”

Orla all but leapt out of her skin and set off to find some gauze. All his time spent bellowing orders loudly enough to be heard in the middle of a cannon battle at sea had given James a voice that could rattle the dead.

Mr Norton stood behind the settee. “She needs a physician.”

“It’s too dangerous out there,” James said. “I’ve seen plenty of head injuries in my time. We can keep her safe for now.”

Orla returned with a bunch of fabric offcuts. “These were all I could find.”

James stood and wiped his hands on a piece of cloth. “Don’t let her fall asleep, you understand? She must be kept awake.”

Vince finally acknowledged the presence of the Watch. His Watch. His failure. “Good of you all to come.”

Clive nodded to him. “Someone needs to act. We thought you were… Well, we all thought you were the person best suited to organise a resistance against the Gunbrides.”

Ruth stood and rested the head of her mace in her hand. “So what’s the plan, Commander?”

From the far corner of the room, Walter stopped fidgeting and lifted his head. “I’m sure you’ve got some ideas.”

Vince frowned and left the parlour, followed by James. They stood on the shop floor. Crates had been piled high against the windows. Though the curtains were drawn, light peeked in from the sides. Outside, people still screamed and shouted, musket fire still sounded. Vince stood with his hands on his hips.

“People are dying,” James said.

“Sentinels?”

“They’re all fighting or dead,” James said. “I should be out there with them, not hiding in here with you.”

“No sense rushing out without a plan. Without support.”

“And where are we supposed to find it? Your Watch isn’t enough. There aren’t any C.T.C. soldiers permanently stationed here, just whoever is in port or at the headquarters. We need more people.”

Vince slammed his palms onto the shop counter and kicked a trunk covered in cracked green leather. Then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no,” he said. “Think I’ve just had a very bad idea.”

WHILE THE WATCH muttered amongst themselves in the bay window, Sorcha knelt beside Orla. “He saved her,” she said. “He didn’t leave her there. He carried her all the way back so she’d be safe. He’s not the person you think he is.”

Orla sniffed, and Sorcha realised she was crying. “Working with the Watch, it’s only a matter of time before some lout gets the better of you.”

“Vince wouldn’t let that happen. Neither would anyone else. That’s what you’ve never understood about the Watch.”

Orla sat quietly for a moment. “Was what he said true? Exeter, I mean. Do you want to leave?”

Sorcha breathed deeply. “Yes. I mean, I won’t go, but yes, I do want to see more of the world. Eventually. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I’ve seen enough of it.” Orla soaked the cloth in a bowl of water. “This could have been you.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But it could have been!” Orla said. “It could so easily have been you, Sorcha. Why can’t you see that? Why do you have to put yourself in the line of fire? I just want you to be happy!”

Ms Hawksmoor groaned a little, and Orla dabbed her head.

Sorcha sank deeper into herself. “Then let me do what makes me happy! Let me work with the Watch. Let me help the people of the town.”

Orla brushed her hand over her own damp eyes. “You can still do all that, just with a man at your side. Or a woman. Just…someone.”

“But what for? Why does it matter so much?”

Orla threw her hands in the air. “Because I need to know you’ll be looked after when I’m gone!”

The Watch turned their heads and Sorcha waved them away. “What are you on about? I thought you didn’t want to go anywhere. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Orla said. “Nothing. I just… If anything happens to me, I want to know you’ll be taken care of. I want to know someone will make sure you’re eating right and will keep a roof over your head.”

“Why would you think something will happen to you? Orla? Are you ill?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” She took a deep breath. “The night we left home, we crawled into the cart, remember? I put you in and had to run back for my bag.”

“I remember,” Sorcha said. “You were only gone for a minute.”

“Mammy was there.”

Sorcha’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Orla dropped a wad of bloody fabric into a bucket and replaced it with a fresh ball. “She was there with my bag. I froze on the spot. I thought she was going to… She just threw my bag at me. She told me it didn’t matter where we went, she’d still find us. Find me. And make me sorry.”

Sorcha hugged her arms around herself. She didn’t know why; she just had to. “She didn’t try to stop you? Why did you never tell me about this?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. I think Mammy let us go, maybe even wanted us to. It meant fewer mouths for her to feed, I suppose. But I jump whenever I hear a door slam or feel someone walking behind me. I really think she meant it. I think one day she’s going to find us. I don’t know how or when, but she will.”

“It’s why we changed our last name,” Sorcha said, taking her hand. “And it’s all the more reason to keep Vince around.”

“You’re not marrying that man,” Orla sniffed through tears.

“Don’t be vile,” Sorcha said, laughing. “And I’m not courting Apricate Maunder either, while we’re at it. You know I don’t need someone to take care of me though. I can look after myself. You raised me well.”