Twenty-Nine

The rope swung in the strengthening wind, smoke clouded his vision, and his lungs burned from it, but Silas forced fear from his mind and concentrated on reaching safety. Hand under fist, he clung to the rope above each knot while his feet found purchase on one below. He repeated the movement, not looking down, moving as quickly as he dared. He thought of nothing but Archer and the rope. It was a long fall, but his lover had landed in water. There was hope.

His feet touched the ground, and he immediately ran to the edge of the piling to vomit into the river. Shock, tension, whatever it was, he brought up bile and black gunk, his head pounding as he coughed and retched, his body shaking and his eyes pouring tears of shock and despair. He howled, letting out whatever other emotions needed to leave him, an exorcism of hopelessness and anger.

He tried to process what had happened. How he had been watching Archer and the approaching figure one moment and the next, there was a hand over his mouth, and he was being dragged. The sound of the man’s breathing, strange words, how he was going to be gutted. Archer’s voice. Gun shots…

Above him, the warehouse was now engulfed in thriving flame, the fire could probably be seen for miles.

Men ran into nearby wharves to watch or climb into tugs, everyone running back and forth, shouting. The river reflected the spectacle in pools of shimmering yellow and orange that shattered when chunks of masonry fell. It was a wild dance of brick and plaster, flame and foam and somewhere beneath it was Archer.

Thomas was suddenly pulling Silas away from the edge.

‘We must look for him,’ he said. ‘Can you stand?’

‘Yeah.’

Silas mustered his strength and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘We have to act fast.’

Thomas was on his feet. He climbed around the crane’s footing, back towards the warehouse as close to where Archer had fallen as he could be without burning and yelled his name. Silas did the same, searching across the water to the next wharf in case he had managed to reach the other side. There was no-one in the oily black and gold which swirled fast around them, the current sweeping burning wood and debris downstream, dragging pieces under in fast-spinning whirlpools.

Thomas was at his side.

‘Over here.’

He pulled Silas by the arm and swung him towards the shore, showing him their escape. A barge moored to the quay, its bow five feet from the piling. The leap was the only way off the brick island, and the barge was already on fire but, where its stern touched the quay, Silas saw a clear path.

He had no time to think. Thomas ran and jumped the gap, landing on the barge clear of the water. It was easy for him, he was taller and fitter, but Silas had no other option but to swim. He had never learned how.

He ran, throwing himself from the island and through the smoke. He reached out as he felt hot air engulf him, not caring where he landed as long as he could find Archer. His shins smacked against metal as he tumbled over the gunwale head first, crashing into a heap at Thomas’ feet.

He was helped up, and with no time to think, half dragged towards the stern and the quay where shouts and whistles joined the cacophony.

‘This way.’

Thomas’ instructions were clear, and he left no room for debate. He led Silas away from the warehouse, and Silas couldn’t understand why they were not scouring the banks for Archer. He was in there somewhere. He needed their help, but Thomas pulled and encouraged him onwards, away from the crowds and the smoke until they reached the next wharf.

Here, Thomas stopped, still within the glow of the fire, but away from its heat. He was bent at the knees, breathing hard. Silas’ chest stung with the exertion, his arms were weak and his palms sore.

‘Where is he?’ he gasped and spat black spittle.

Thomas looked at him, his face reflecting Silas’ fear. Lines of soot ran from his eyes, and his nostrils were black rings.

Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Archer!’ Silas screamed, but his voice was drowned by the melee.

Thomas shook him by the arms, forcing him to look into his bloodshot eyes. ‘Silas,’ he said. ‘He knows what he is doing. He’s a strong swimmer.’

He said a myriad of things that Silas didn’t hear until the shock left him and reason returned.

‘Downriver,’ he said. ‘The current?’

Thomas nodded and, still panting, approached the outer reach of the harbour arm. From there, they could see upstream as far as the fog would allow. It was as if it had backed off from the scene of the fire, or had been driven back by the heat as the men now were, uselessly trying to douse the towering flames with jackets and pails. Across the river, the southern bank was barely visible and downstream, there was nothing but high cranes and tethered barges swaying uneasily in the swirling blackness.

Silas stood beside Thomas as they scoured the surface, and when Thomas put an arm around his shoulder and drew him to his side, he was no less fearful of Archer’s fate, but reassured that he was not alone.

‘Look.’ Thomas pointed to a crate, bobbing in the water and coming their way.

‘Where?’ Silas thought he had spotted the viscount, and his heart leapt, but Thomas was only watching the debris.

‘See where it goes,’ he said.

‘We ain’t got time to stand and wait.’

‘Just watch.’

As the crate spun and bobbed, it occurred to Silas that, somehow, Thomas still wore his cloak and was sheltering him with it. He was grateful for the warmth against the breeze which, now they were away from the flames, chilled the sweat on his body.

‘See where it goes.’ Thomas explained his logic. ‘It’s floating with the tide.’

So were hundreds of other pieces of wood and cloth, some still smouldering, but they kept their attention fixed on the crate as it swirled past and on downstream.

Thomas was running again, this time holding Silas by the hand. They followed the quayside, staying close to the water’s edge, cutting in and around the dock until they were free of it and the shoreline opened below them.

There in the mud, with his legs in the lapping water, lay Archer.

Silas was prepared to jump the six feet from the wall to the water’s edge, but Thomas stopped him and pointed out a set of steps. Silas was on them in a heartbeat and a moment later, the riverbank, little more than sand leading to cloying mud. He sank to his ankles, strangely grateful that he was unable to smell the effluent and rot through his clogged nose. Thomas waded after him, and they arrived at the body together.

Silas was crying as Thomas turned the viscount onto his back, calling his name, tears drenching his blackened face. With a strength Silas didn’t know he possessed, Thomas ripped the body from the squelching mud and cradled it in his arms, his ear bent to Archer’s mouth.

Silas was hollow. Nothing existed within him anymore. He was just a shell. A pathetic, useless thing that had caused his lover’s death. Archer was more than a lover. They had been forged from different moulds, in different classes, but they were two halves of the same whole; two chapters of the same story where one couldn’t exist without the other. Silas fell to his knees, his hopes and dreams swallowed by the blood-chilling certainty that Archer was dead.

The river was suddenly very inviting.

‘Silas.’ Thomas’ urgent voice cut through his misery. ‘Silas!’

He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to take Archer in his arms and carry him into the water so the two of them could sink beneath it and be together, but Thomas was insistent. Silas looked into the man’s eyes and saw his own affection reflected there. Thomas’ love for the viscount was as deep as his own.

‘Silas.’ Thomas hand gripped his shoulder and dug in. The pain brought him to his senses. ‘Can you ride?’