And a father and brother would be avenged.
Revenge, Lee thought, as he began to dress, was indeed a repast best served cold.
Hawkwood, seated in the bow of the rowing boat, rested his elbows on the oar and tried to ignore the sticky rivulets of sweat trickling uncomfortably down his back and beneath his armpits. His discarded jacket lay on the seat beside him. Jago, resting on his own oar, chuckled at Hawkwood’s discomfort.
Suspecting that the river would be the most practical means of access, Hawkwood had used his warrant to commandeer the boat from a wherryman at the Ratcliff Cross stairs. The canny boat owner had tried to extract the exorbitant sum of one shilling for the inconvenience and temporary disruption to his livelihood, until a glare from Jago warned him not to push his luck. In the end, Hawkwood had compromised and paid sixpence, four times the normal crossing charge. Better to keep the man quiet, he reasoned, than have him blab to every Tom, Dick and Harry that a Runner was on the prowl.
They were drifting fifty yards off the Limehouse shore. Looking over his left shoulder, Hawkwood could see the bend in the river and the western entrance to the canals and lagoons that formed the huge West India Docks. Beyond the dock entrance, the river widened out to almost a quarter of a mile as it ran southwards towards Deptford and the Isle of Dogs.
With the sun barely over the rooftops, the river was already bustling with activity. Lighters, barges, bumboats, cutters and colliers vied for wharf space and an opportunity to discharge their loads and take on new cargoes, while further downstream the tall, slender masts of the larger vessels, East Indiamen and Royal Navy warships, could be seen outlined against the rapidly brightening sky.
Onshore, it was just as congested. Jetties groaned under the weight of coal sacks, tobacco bales, baulks of timber, liquor casks, and crates of bleating livestock. The smells emanating from the river bank reflected the myriad trades plied within the borough, from the sharp, acrid stench of the lime kilns to the throat-souring odour of the tar yards.
Suddenly, Jago sat up and nodded towards the river bank. “Land ho, Cap’n.”
Hawkwood twisted in his seat, and followed Jago’s gaze.
There was little to distinguish the warehouse from the rest of the waterfront buildings, save for the faded name board nailed on to the wall above the jetty. Located adjacent to the entrance to Limekiln Dock and abutted by a densely packed collection of granaries and storehouses, the warehouse, with its adjoining yard, was not much different from a thousand other commercial properties lining the river from the Tower to Tilbury, albeit in slightly better repair than most.
Both men picked up their oars. “Well, now,” Jago murmured softly, as they sculled closer to the bank. “Take a lookee there.”
Hawkwood followed the big man’s gaze.
A narrow channel and loading dock separated the twostoreyed building from its nearest neighbour, effectively isolating the property from the rest of the waterfront. At the end of the channel, in the shadow of a low stone archway, directly beneath the warehouse at river level, was a pair of heavy wooden doors.
Jago grinned. “Mighty convenient, ain’t they. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Wordlessly, Hawkwood continued to stroke them towards the main shore, to where a weathered stone stairway reached down into the murky water. As the bow of the rowboat nudged the bottom step, Hawkwood shipped his oar and picked up his coat. Jago got to his feet.
“Not you, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said.
Jago blinked. “Say again?”
Hawkwood turned, foot balanced on the gunwale. “I’m going in alone.”
“The hell you are!” Jago rasped.
Hawkwood stepped ashore. Relieved of his weight, the boat rocked alarmingly. Jago staggered as he searched for balance. “Christ!”
“I need you to keep watch,” Hawkwood said.
“An’ if you run into trouble?” Jago glared. “Bearin’ in mind what ’appened the last time you went gallivantin’ around on your own.”
“Give me an hour. If I’m not back by then, contact Magistrate Read.”
“And then what?”
“He’ll know what to do.”
“Bleedin’ ’ell!” Jago said. “An’ that’s your grand strategy, is it?”
“Unless you’ve a better one.”
Jago stared at Hawkwood. Finally, he shook his head in exasperation. “Can’t say as I do, off ’and.”
Hawkwood reached inside his jacket and took out his baton. He held it out. “Take this.”
“What the bleedin’ ’ell do you expect me to do with that?”
“You may need it. If anything happens to me and you need to get to Magistrate Read, it’ll help open a few doors.”
Reluctantly, Jago accepted the offering.
“Don’t lose it,” Hawkwood said. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I’ll stick it up my arse. No one’ll find it there.”
Hawkwood grinned.
As Hawkwood climbed the steps to the quayside, the burly ex-sergeant shook his head and stared glumly at the Runner’s retreating back. “I bloody ’ope you knows what you’re doin’, you mad bugger,” he grunted.
As Hawkwood made his way along the quay, he wondered if it had been such a good idea to leave Jago behind. The ex-sergeant was a good man to have at your back, but it didn’t make sense both of them walking into what might be the lion’s den. So Hawkwood, against his better judgement, and to Nathaniel Jago’s understandable dismay, was on his own.
At least he was having no trouble blending into his surroundings. He’d had no time to return to his lodgings since reporting back to James Read. His long hair remained unbound and he was still wearing the remnants of his old uniform. To anyone on the dockside, he was just another ex-soldier turned river worker. No one spared him a second glance. Hawkwood picked his way along the busy waterfront, senses alert.
Very few people had permanent jobs on the river. Most were casual workers, or lumpers, who lived in the crowded alleys and lanes that ran down to the water, their livelihood dependent solely on the movement of vessels. Most lumpers were either holders, who worked inside the ship’s hold, or deckers. Deckers lifted the cargo to and from the vessel, either on to the dockside or via a lighter. It was hard, backbreaking work, requiring brawn rather than brain. But no man complained if it put a roof over his head or food on the table.
The waterfront was piled high with produce. A heap of sugar sacks sat on the quay in front of him. Without breaking stride, Hawkwood swung the top sack on to his shoulder and carried on walking. He waited for the angry cry but none came. Using the sack to partially conceal his features, he continued along the jetty.
Hawkwood had no clear idea of how he was going to gain access to the warehouse and yard, other than by stealth or deception. He was still considering his options when his attention was caught by a group of men lounging in the doorway of a grog shop. One in five buildings along the riverfront sold liquor in one form or another. Most innkeepers acted as agents, supplying men to ships. Needless to say, they also supplied liquor to the men, deducting the cost from their earnings. It was a lucrative business and there was no shortage of labourers looking for work, so there was nothing untoward about the scene itself. It was the face of a man leaving the grog shop, a knapsack slung over his shoulder, that had caught Hawkwood’s eye. It was a face he recognized, though he couldn’t put a name to it. Then he remembered. It belonged to one of the group who had shared a table with Scully, in Noah’s Ark.
Coincidence? It couldn’t be that simple, surely? But there wasn’t time to dwell on the matter, the man was on the move, heading towards the timber yard. Hawkwood, increasingly conscious of the dead weight he was carrying on his own shoulder, considered his lack of options and set off in cautious pursuit.