Losing Old Faithful had been easier than he thought. Jack had dived into a tavern at the bottom of The Side, slipped out the back door, down a narrow lane and back into the throng that milled outside the Guildhall. Dark it may have been, but the unseasonable mildness of the weather had brought many onto the streets. The taverns would be bulging tonight.
Before he ventured over the bridge, he nervously glanced around. No shadow, though it was difficult to be sure in the gloom. He walked beside a cart to shield him from view. The driver had imbibed too much on his visit to market and was in imminent danger of plunging off the front. Fortunately, the horse seemed to know its way. Now positive that he was on his own, Jack left the cart on the Gateshead side of the bridge and strode quickly up the bank towards St. Mary’s Church. He had a bag over his shoulder containing his essential belongings and Catherine’s money. How much would he have to slip the captain of the Rosetta? What would he do when he got to London? He would have time enough on board to work out his plans.
Out of the darkness, the church loomed up in front of him; a shaft of moonlight caressing the tower. Up here, the air was clear; stars twinkled above as though silver paint had been flicked across the sky. On the other side of the river, Newcastle was wreathed in smoke, through which a thousand lights winked blearily. There was a great deal of activity along the quayside; flambeaux moved to and fro like will-o’-the-wisps. All along the further shore, from the outskirts of Sandgate to as far as the eye could see, the fires from the Ouseburn glassmakers and riverside foundries burned brightly. They would sparkle and spit all night. And somewhere below him, among the dark warehouses, Bowser would meet his fate.
Jack hung his bag over an upright gravestone and sat with his back to the cold slab. It was too dark to read the inscription. From this vantage point, he could see the entrance to the churchyard yet be out of sight himself. He wasn’t taking any chances at this late stage.
The church clock struck seven times. Only another quarter of an hour and Hogg would be here. Jack hoped he would bring a well-armed force with him. Bowser had enough bruisers of his own to put up quite a fight.
Time seemed to stand still. How long was it since he’d heard the clock chime? Easily fifteen minutes. The last thing he needed was the pompous ass to be late. He would get up and wait at the gate. He shivered as he stood, clapping his arms across his chest to restore his circulation and calm his rising twitchiness. Suddenly, he was aware that figures were close to him. He started to utter the word ‘Captain’. Then something crashed down on the back of his head and blackness rushed in.