The rain took on a fiercer chill. “Hulk?” I asked the man, my lips stiff. “Which one?”
He pointed off to his right. His finger indicated the wall, but I understood what he meant. The easternmost one, the Atonement.
“How do you know?” I asked.
The man shrugged, but Brewster took a step to him, and he shrank back.
I assessed him. Our informer had the build of a laborer, but unlike the locals inside the tavern, who were loud, whether snarling or singing, this man barely parted his lips to talk.
His spirit had been broken. I’d seen such a thing in soldiers in the army, who had gone into battle once too often. They folded up into themselves, some continuing their duty as expected, but without any fear or hope—they felt nothing at all. Others slid off into the night and either deserted or ended their misery with knife or pistol.
“You’ve been there,” I said. “On the Atonement, I mean. As a prisoner.”
He gave me a nod. “Aye. Months. I think. Labored by day, chained at night. Pardon came through just before I was to be transported. My innocence proved. Don’t matter now, do it?”
Brewster stared at him. “What you still doing here? Me, I’d be galloping home were I free and clear.”
Another shrug. “Nowhere to go. No money to get there. I work for my keep. Sleep in a stable. No irons.”
His lack of inflection chilled me. He was going through the motions of life, not knowing what else to do. He might have no family or perhaps one that wanted nothing to do with him.
“You’re certain you saw a Runner from London?” I asked. “On this hulk?”
The man’s eyes flared with irritation. “I recognize a Runner when I see one. Like that big lout ye came here with. ’Sides, he told me. Was looking for old Jack Finch, what was transported years ago. Don’t know what he thought he’d find. He said was chatting to a few sailors on a dock when suddenly they jump on him, beat him down and strip him, and row him out here. He were here, half insensible, when the rest of us came back.”
“Good Lord,” I breathed. I thought of Quimby, small and thoughtful, a smart man but not gifted with bulk. “Was he still there when you were let off?”
“Aye,” the man said. “Thought he wouldn’t last—a thief-taker in with hundreds of convicts? They went at him at first, those who could reach him, but he talked us round. Said it was only his due, and when we got to Van Diemen’s Land, we’d save our pennies and buy us a fine house and have dances all night. He were a kind bloke, ye could see.”
“What day did you see him last? How long ago were you released?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t know. Three, maybe four days. Saw you and knew the yellow-haired one was another Runner. But you, sir, seem more amiable, like, so I decided to talk to you. You’d best get the other one out of there.”
“So we shall.” I dipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a few shillings. “You might want to find another town to rest in, in case someone takes umbrage that you spoke to us. If you can get yourself to Norfolk, on the far north end of it, go to a village called Parson’s Point. Look up a man named Terrance Quinn, and tell him I said you can be hired to work on my house there.”
The man blinked as though coming awake. He switched his gaze to Brewster. “Is he a madman?”
“Aye,” Brewster answered readily. “But don’t let that worry ye. He’ll not steer ye wrong. Take his money, and his advice.”
The man at last accepted the coins, clutching them in his fist as though fearing they’d disappear.
“Right you are, sir,” he said, and then turned around and walked into the mist and rain, as though ready to trudge to Norfolk on the spot.
“Whew,” Brewster said. “I don’t like Runners, but I wouldn’t wish that on one of them. Mr. Quimby is a good sort, for all he’s a thief-taker. Are we off to rescue him?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let us hope they don’t chain us up and throw us into the hold as well.”
Pomeroy, when we broke the news of Quimby’s capture, was ready to continue drinking and have a night’s sleep, saying we’d investigate the former prisoner’s claim in the morning.
“On your feet, Sergeant,” I told him sternly. “One more night might kill him. If you were festering out there, you’d be grateful we didn’t wait for the convenience of daylight.”
Pomeroy refused to grow angry, though he did rise. “Ye keep forgetting I ain’t your sergeant anymore, Captain. And on this little jaunt, it’s me what’s in command. Have ye thought this man from the hulk might be playing you for a fool, luring us out so we’ll be cornered ourselves?”
“It occurred to me, yes,” I said. “But you did not see his eyes when he spoke to us. The hulks nearly broke him. He had no reason to tell us about Quimby except concern for the man.”
“Ye mean except maybe being paid to tell you.” Pomeroy lifted his tankard and drained it. “You’re right that if Quimby is there, he needs to be hauled out. But you let me talk to the turnkeys. Obviously the Governess didn’t know how to put the fear of God into ’em.”
I agreed that Pomeroy could bully the way for us, and we departed the inn.
Our hired coachman did not want to leave his warm billet and plenty of ale, but after I put a crown into his hand, he grunted and went to ready the horses.
The naval yard, when we reached it, was far from silent. Though carpentry work had finished for the night, plenty of sailors were on duty guarding the valuable ships and guns. Sentries remained on the lookout for warships, should the Austrian or Russian Empires take the whim to invade tonight.
“Good sir,” Pomeroy called out to the guard with musket who halted us. “Fetch Lieutenant Ostman. I have a favor to ask him. A casket of best brandy to him if he does it, and have a cup yourself. The captain here will stand it.”
I tried not to flinch, but at least the guard nodded and fetched another guard to lead us to Ostman’s lodgings.
The lieutenant, who had reluctantly welcomed us earlier and assigned Seaman Jones to be our guide, was not happy to be pulled away from his dinner, his wine, and his mistress. He met us in the cold and dark foyer of his house, light and warmth waiting in the rooms behind him.
He was even less happy when Pomeroy asked for a boat to row us out to a hulk.
“Nothing to do with me,” the lieutenant barked.
“It might, sir, begging your pardon.” Pomeroy’s eyes twinkled and his voice boomed like a cannonade. “Runners abducted and taken to the hulks, criminals escaping from the colonies, all under the Royal Navy’s nose. Quite a scandal, sir.”
Which everyone on Sheppey and beyond would know about, thanks to Pomeroy’s hearty bellow.
The lieutenant flushed. “I will arrange it,” he said stiffly. “But I have never seen this Mr. Quimby. You’ve a bee in your bonnet, man.”
“It’s buzzing quite hard,” Pomeroy said. “Pass us off to your flunky and get back to your beefsteak and pudding.” He gave the lieutenant a wink.
The lieutenant’s countenance became more sour than ever. “I will arrange it,” he repeated, and swung away, calling orders to his servants.
Seaman Jones arrived quickly at the lieutenant’s door. The lad must have been pulled away from his supper as well, but he greeted us cheerfully.
“Got a boat for ye and good strong rowers. But I don’t know why ye want to go out to the Atonement, sirs. Terrible place.”
“Exactly why we’re going, lad,” Pomeroy said. “Lead on.”
Jones took us from the officers’ quarters and down through narrow alleyways to the water. We trudged behind him across the wet and slick shingle to a waiting longboat.
The boat was already in the water, straining at its tether tied to a ring in the rocks. We waded out to it, the brackish water freezing me through my boots. My knee throbbed.
“Never thought I’d be rushing toward a hulk,” Brewster muttered behind me. “Can’t be good luck, this.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Pomeroy assured him. “I won’t order you clapped in irons, my good fellow, not until you’re lawfully convicted. No need to jump ahead.”
“He won’t get his reward if there isn’t an official conviction,” I told Brewster, and Pomeroy laughed.
“Right you are, Captain. Always hit the nail on the head.”
“Very comforting,” Brewster said. “I’m sure.”
The strong wind from the North Sea tried its best to push the stink of the hulks down the river, but all the tempests in all the world would not cleanse this place, I thought.
The ship called the Atonement rose like a black slab of rock not far from shore. High tide cut off the rudderless ship, anchored forever on a mud flat. A few lights winked on the stern deck, but the rest of the ship was as black as the night.
The fetor of bodies, urine, and filth clung to the ship like a mist. Men were crammed into these hulks by the hundreds, chained to the wall at night, some without a pallet to lie on. By day they were marched out to dredge channels or break rocks, or other manual labor.
I’d known men in the army who’d been taken from the hulks and given a second life as cannon fodder for the French, but they’d found the cramped quarters and second-rate food a sight better than they’d been used to. One man told me he’d had nothing but a dirty pair of under breeches to wear because the guards had stolen the clothes he’d been allotted. They also stole all the food and consigned the prisoners to live on rotten biscuits.
One of the guards on deck, cradling a musket in his arms, peered over the railing as we approached. “What you doing here?”
“We need to come aboard,” Seaman Jones said nervously.
“Magistrate’s business,” Pomeroy called from the bow. “Just open up the hatches for me, there’s a good fellow.”
“Who’re you?” the guard asked. The musket didn’t move, and though, by the way he held it, I did not think it loaded, the man was large and would be tough. He’d have to be, to stand watch in this place.
Pomeroy rose to his feet, bracing himself on the gunwale. His tall bulk stretched his dark blue coat, and the wind caught its tails. He removed his hat, his fair hair a pale smudge in the moonlight. My former sergeant was a formidable sight, and he’d put the fear of God into better men than the hulk’s guard above him.
“Pomeroy. Of Bow Street. I have letters if you want to see them. A pistol and a dozen stout naval men behind me if you don’t.”
I knew bloody well Pomeroy had no letters from his magistrate, or Sir Montague. I doubted the guard could read them even if he had, which I guessed was what Pomeroy counted on. He wasn’t above a bluff, or a blatant lie, as means to an end. The naval men who’d rowed us out did not look pleased to be named as Pomeroy’s rearguard.
“We can’t have all you up here,” the guard said. “Too dangerous. There’s bad men here, didn’t ye know?” he finished in an attempt at humor.
“And you’re one of ’em,” Brewster said in a tight whisper. One of the sailors coughed a laugh.
“Tell you what,” Pomeroy shouted. “You let me up there with a couple of fellows, and we’ll have a quick look about. Ten minutes, and then you’ll be left in peace.”
Two more guards had joined the first, including one with a pistol in his belt who seemed to be in charge.
“Let ’em up,” he growled. “Magistrates should leave us to get on. What’s a Runner want to look at convicted villains for anyway? You’re done with ’em.”
“We have our reasons,” Pomeroy said. “You all right climbing the ladder, Captain?” he asked me. “Or shall I leave you down here all snug?”
“I’ll manage,” I said grimly.
The guard lowered a ladder made of ropes and wooden steps that looked cracked and brittle. Pomeroy, without worry, grabbed hold and started scrambling.
If the ladder took his weight, it ought to take mine, I told myself. I had no intention of letting Pomeroy board this hulk alone, as competent as he was. If they’d already imprisoned one Runner …
“You don’t have to come,” I told Brewster, who looked as though he’d be sick.
“The devil I don’t.” Brewster seized the ladder and jerked it from my grasp. “Not risking them shooting you as soon as you’re over the gunwale or knocking you on the head and locking you up too. His Nibs would draw and quarter me and feed me my own entrails, just to teach me a lesson. I’m going up first, and you stick to me like a cocklebur once you’re on.”
He started up the ladder, moving quickly and competently, the lower rungs banging into the hull as he went.
Finally I positioned myself to begin the climb, and Seaman Jones kindly gave me a boost. After a few rungs, I learned how to lead with my good leg and not let my bad one hinder me too much.
The guards had seemed annoyed rather than alarmed that a Bow Street Runner had come to do an inspection. I’d expect them to be a bit more nervous if Quimby were here. Either the man outside the inn was mistaken, or these guards had no idea Quimby was in their hold.
Brewster caught my arms as I reached the ship’s railing, and he dragged me the last few feet. I steadied myself on the deck, Brewster’s hold assisting. He refused to let go even as we followed Pomeroy to the main hatch. A cocklebur indeed.
Some of the guards did have loaded guns, which they now primed and cocked while the others loaded their muskets. The head guard drew his pistol, checked and primed the pan, then held it at the ready.
He nodded at two men who unscrewed the bolts that held the hatch closed and then hauled up the grate.
The stench that boiled out of the hole made me step back and Brewster curse. Pomeroy remained calmly at the opening, looking down into the dark.
“If they’re chained, why the worry, gentlemen?” he asked, gesturing at the guards’ weaponry.
“Some have been known to get free,” the head guard said, his voice like flint. “They charge the hatch. But don’t worry, we’ll close it on them, and they’ll just mob until they drop.”
He spoke matter-of-factly, as though talking about birds fighting for nesting space.
Pomeroy peered down into the darkness. “Should throw buckets of water down there once in a while to clean it out. Shine a light on the poor buggers for me.”
One of the guards brought forth a lantern with a flickering candle inside it and lowered it into the hold.
No ladder connected the upper deck with the ship’s interior—they must bring a ladder only when they needed to haul the prisoners up for the day or send them back down at night.
The swinging lantern showed me eyes, both rodent and human, glittering in the feeble light.
Equally unnerving were the sounds. Men cursed, their voices cracked. Some pled for water; others groaned in pain. Behind this came the rustle of chains, clink of iron, skitter of claws, and movement of bodies against damp wood.
Brewster, next to me, had gone very quiet. Unlike Pomeroy, who made remarks about men packed in like the rats with them, Brewster remained silent, leaning his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed.
Pomeroy looked upon the men below with the serenity of one who believed he’d never meet their fate. Brewster, on the other hand, knew that only the grace of God had kept him on this side of the hatch.
Pomeroy scanned the faces illuminated by the lantern. “Quimby?” he bellowed. “You down there?”
“There are three levels in the hold,” the head guard said coldly. “If you’re searching for a man, give me his name, and I’ll look up his number.”
Pomeroy ignored him. “Quimby, lad! Shout out if you’re here!”
More groans and a few cries came in response.
“Put out the light, damn you,” one man yelled. “Don’t ye know I need me sleep? Must look me best in the morning.”
Laughter, tired, came, drowned out by another man telling the first to shut his gob.
Over this, I heard a thin voice. I held up my hand as Pomeroy drew breath to shout again.
“Mr. Quimby?” I called. “It’s Captain Lacey. Is that you, sir?”
“Ah, Captain,” came the weak response. “I must extend my apologies. I am not my best to receive callers at present, I am afraid.”