"Now lads," said Holt, 'the Old Top Drum's the nearest, so we'll go there first. There's a way in down that little jigger behind the skin man shop as I remember. Am I right?"
"Plain to see where 'ee do drink, then," came a mutter from the back. Holt dutifully joined in the chuckle.
"We'll split up into three till we get close," he continued. "That way the spies won't maybe spot us for the Press. We'll have to go in front and back when we've joined up, so we'll use the pie shop as a rendezvous, it's half a furlong from the alehouse. We'll meet there in ten minutes, divide in two and pincher them."
"Lawks, I 'ave forgot my fob watch" said another voice, and the laughter was renewed.
"Do it by your thirst," said Holt. "Ten minutes is a long time till a drink. If we strike lode I'll stand you one."
Will went with him and Peter Tennison, a thin man who looked more like their servant than a man-catcher (he stank of liquor, also, from his night spent in the scuppers), and they kept their weapons obscured from the public gaze. Sam said the level of activity in these streets was not unusual, despite the lateness of the hour, but that the men they wanted would, by now, be well ensconced. The 'spies' he'd mentioned were usually small boys, who watched for Press patrols by local custom, and ran from pub to pub to tip men off. Hence, he added, if they did badly at their first stop, their chances of success would be diminished, at least for hours.
"Dead drunkenness is our best ally, Will; that and surprise. Lucky for us that Jack likes to sup on liquor."
The gathering outside the pie shop was well done. Will saw it up ahead still open, in the London way with not a Navy man in sight. As he and Sam and Tennison arrived, so did Jem Taylor, from an alleyway, then from across the road came John Behar and Tilley, on their own. Jem Taylor whistled, and his crew showed themselves, ready and keen. Sam took the two big men, with Tennison and Silas Ayling, and put Taylor's team in Will's command. It took three seconds, but "Quick!" he said. "Mr. Bentley and Jem Taylor through the back, us through the front. Now look alive!"
Plucked by the arm into the jigger, William found himself pursuing aylor and three others through liquid muck and garbage, the 'leader' damn near failing to keep up. He was well shod, they were ill, but the loathsome nature of the track worried them not at all, nor fear apparently of jagged stones or cutting things. Within two hundred yards they found a wall, and within the wall a wicket. There was no ceremony of seeking a response. Billy Mann, Josh Baines, Alf Wilmott combined their weight and threw it at the door, which clattered open probably unbolted. In the darkness of the yard a blacker shape dashed for the wall, ascended it like a top man and was gone. First loss.
"Draw your pistol, sir!" urged someone, hoarsely. "Shoot'm if they tries fer't run!"
This was mad advice, and Bentley knew it. He drew his club out though, and forged again a follower through the cluttered yard. There was a dog, within an outhouse, barking ferociously, crashing against the inside wooden wall, a huge and heavy dog. But they were past, and Jem Taylor booted in the back door to the scullery, and they were in. Here was dark, also, and Will heard screams and bellowing, and glimpsed one fat old woman, and a girl or so. He smelled sweat, sharp and excited, come off one of the men, sudden and distinctive, and Baines, a small man, rather ratty, was wild-eyed, almost yapping, like a spaniel at a rabbit's throat.
To William, though, it quickly seemed a useless way to take men unawares. Like other alehouses he knew more so than most, indeed it was a warren, of doors and passageways and nooks. The men were wild and quick, but their quarry, in the main, was quicker. As they bundled down one long passage, side doors sprang open, heads popping out like actors in a play. Bodies ditto, to scamper off away if they had need to. While others, men and maids, moved out into the thoroughfare and wedged in solidly, stoic in the face of threats and cutlasses.
In the biggest parlour they found Samuel and his crew, and the makings of a general brawl. Here were prime seamen, no doubt of that, and many of them almost incapable. There were others though, whose faces were alive with joy at the roughhouse in store. At the moment William put his face into the room a bottle missed it by an inch or less, smashing on the doorpost to spray him with a spirit and some shards of glass. Baines, behind him, ducked underneath his arm and shot across the room like a dervish to pay the thrower back. Blood was pouring from a gash beneath his eye.
"Cease this brawling!" shouted Holt, his voice sadly unrewarding. "We are here in the King's name! I offer bounty for all able-bodied men, and three months' wages in advance!"
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong men, it would appear. The room was full of sailors, and they were full of drink and cash and (judging by the doxies at their sides) explosive lust. However attractive wages and bounty might sound to destitutes, these men were here to spend. William, to his surprise, found himself propelled into the middle of the room, firm hands had pushed him from the ruck, and he was face-to-face with roaring homeward-bounders.
For an instant he was seized by fear, and for the same bare second the parlour, in his brain at least, went deadly silent. In face of him, burly as a bear, shoulders forward in a fighting crouch, there stood a man about to spring, to tear him into pieces. The lurch inside himself was sickening; the red-eyed, raw glare, the drunken jubilation on the savage face took him back to other places, other violent men. Neither Samuel who might have tried nor the Impress crew who might not had time to move before the figure, as swift as it was massive, came at him with hands outstretched like claws. William saw both the bare feet come off the ground, the man was flying. And the noise came back, an enormous roar burst on his eardrums.
William was calm as ice now, and each move he made outstripped his conscious brain. As the face came towards him, level with his own, his arm with weighted club swung back and sideways in an arc behind his right leg, then flashed across his own face to strike the sailor's with a crashing blow. Then, neat as a dancer, the small blond man stepped back and sideways as the flying ape flew on, to scatter the Press gang and crump into the wall. Another roar arose, half of it cheers, and his men barged past him into the centre, their own clubs jubilantly raised.
The man was breathing blood from nose and mouth, but was conscious. His eyes caught William's, and he smiled. But surely not, thought Will; but surely not? A young woman came at him then, more claws, more hatred, but John Behar's hand, a bone and sinew nightmare, caught her by the neck of her gown, which tore across to reveal a full and handsome bosom that, by dexterously turning her, Behar managed to catch in one hand, then in both. Another wench happily, thought William then bit his leg.
The fight was general, and impossible. Everyone, save William and Holt perhaps, enjoyed it immensely, although some of the women screamed, as if for form's sake. Will could not tell at all if they were going to 'gain the day', or how they'd know, or tell. Then the third man not enjoying it, the man who owned the furniture and glass, put an end to it (though not immediate) by dousing all the candles and the other glims. There was a fire, for the friendly fugit made presumably, but it glowed dim. After some minutes men rolling on the floor were the only combatants, and that died off rapidly. Very soon the parlour seemed less crowded, as it was in all reality: there was little that could stop those bent on going, for nobody could identify his nearest fellow, certainly. When the landlord brought in fresh lights, there were the Press gang and five other men, three on the floor, one seated at a broken table, one standing. Five men whose ages added, at a guess, to damn near three hundred years, and one of them with only half a starboard arm.