Easton (20 page)

“George,” she interrupts. “We can’t stay here. We must leave now.”

“Why?” gasps George, surprised she should already know of trouble.

“The captain has been down here with some men. They are going to trap us both. I pretended not to understand, but they are coming back for us.”

George sighs. He wonders how he can get them all off the barge and past the men without being caught. The baby’s crying has such a desperate edge it’s as though he understands the danger they are in.

Jemma shakes George’s forearms by the cuffs. “I heard the men say the baby and I are to be their reward,” she says, her voice now mingled with tears. “By the King’s orders we will be theirs to sell. And you will be hanged!”

“We must do something quickly,” George whispers, squeezing her hand.

He knows there is an axe hanging from the wall hereabouts. He remembers seeing it when the captain lit their way to this corner earlier in the day. He stands and gropes above Jemma’s head until his fingers come across a blade. Slowly he unhooks the rope to free the axe and lets the handle come to rest in one hand, feeling its weight.

He stands for a moment and listens to the silence above.
What are they waiting for?
he wonders. He imagines the men on the dock watching the captain for his signal. It won’t be long. But, then again, if Jemma convinced them she didn’t understand what they were saying, they might think there is no hurry. They might stand there for hours, savouring their certain victory.

George checks the sharpness of the blade with his fingertips. His first thought is to use it as a weapon. But that will mean he has twice as many weapons—pistol, sword, Whitbourne’s dagger, axe—than hands. Another plan is forming, one that will cause panic on the barge and confusion on the dock. George checks to make sure his tinderbox is still in his clothes. He finds it in a pocket of his tunic. He walks quietly back through the corridor of barrels.

“Jemma,” he says, “lift the baby from the floor. Leave our clothes and things. We are not taking them.”

He hears the rustling of clothes several yards away. The baby whimpers. Satisfied they are at a safe distance, George swings the axe. The blade buries itself deep in the wood of a barrel. It lodges there hard. The blade is so clean and sharp it has made next to no noise entering the wood. He pulls it out with some difficulty, wrenching the handle one way then the other. There is no noise of dripping, but the smell of brandy fills the enclosed space.

“Stay exactly where you are, Jemma. Keep hold of the child.”

He swings toward the opposite side. Again the blade sinks into the wood and gets stuck. Again he wrenches the axe free, and this time the spill is audible. He goes through the same process two, three, four times. Each time the barrel is breached. The smell is overpowering and now the cool brandy begins to seep in at the soles of his shoes. It is time to leave, he thinks.

“Jemma, this way,” he whispers. She walks toward him, her footsteps making a dripping sound. He guides her with the baby to the first step. “Now, when I say—run,” he tells her, “we must be quick.”

She stops and tugs his tunic at the shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

“Set the barge alight.”

“We’ll be trapped inside,” she says.

“We have to risk it. The men will run on to find us. They are guarding the gangplank now. When they run on we can—”

She puts her fingers to his lips.

“No,” she says, “
You
call out to the captain. Get them to panic and run on. Then
I
will light a fire and we can escape.”

George shakes his head.

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

“George, George!” she whispers urgently, cradling the side of his face with her fingers. “Nothing is too dangerous now. And I know what men here are most afraid of.”

George is silent, waiting for her to explain.

“Run up the stairs. Tell them I am using witchcraft. Then I will light the fire.”

George tries to reply, but her fingers on his lips stop him.

“Please,” she says. “Please! I know what to do.”

George bows his head for a moment, nods and then kisses her fingers. He puts his hand on the baby’s warm head for a second, then takes out his tinderbox, gives it to her and turns to climb the stairs.

Halfway up, he starts running. He turns in the cabin above then thumps up the final flight toward the deck. “Help! Witchcraft! Help!” he cries.

He emerges into the moonlight of the deck, letting all the fear which consumes his mind and body show through his eyes.

“Witchcraft below!” he shrieks. “The slave has conjured the living devil!”

The captain, still near the wheel, gapes at him, his features contorting in fear. George stares at the men and points at the deck below.

“She has conjured the devil!” he screams. “Run for your lives!”

The men guarding the gangplank stay where they are, shoulders twitching, hands reaching into their belts for weapons— except for one, younger than the rest, who simply turns and runs into the smokey darkness of the nearest alley. Another turns and shouts at him to return, but at that moment there is a whooshing sound and violet flames shoot up from the cabin window. George catches sight of Jemma scooting out through the cabin door, her dark, huddled figure an outline against the red and blue dancing flames. She skips around the opposite side of the little cabin.

“Run! Run for your lives!” George screams at the captain whose eyes are now alive with fiery reflections. The little man crouches low on the deck like a frog waiting to jump, as though some kind of extraordinary leap into the air might prevent catastrophe overtaking his ship.

Two of the men now come racing down the gangplank. Another slips away on the dockside. Too swift to be noticed by his companions, he flees along the wharf, scattering pebbles into the darkness.

“Witchcraft!” George screams again, hoping to terrify the others. “She’s down there with the living devil!”

He points again toward the cabin door.

The two men and the captain huddle together on the deck, staring with blue, flaming eyes as the fire licks around the cabin window and doorway, leaping high into the black sky.

George backs off toward the gangplank as the men gesticulate to each other about what to do. Then he feels a tug at his clothes behind him. Turning, he sees Jemma with the child. They slip away to the gangplank and then clatter down it.

“Hey! Hey!” comes the cry of the captain from the boat. But George and Jemma push through the gathering crowd which, dazed by the spectacle of the flaming barge, parts like a sea, letting them through. The captain shouts again, but George cannot make out the words. The crowd begins to shriek and gasp.

George and Jemma duck into an alley, still running. But George slows down and pulls Jemma back by the sleeve.

“Now walk,” he whispers to her, “just walk.”

Curious gazes are already greeting them from behind the dark stalls. A shopkeeper shouts at them as much from sport, George thinks, as from any wish to sell his wares. He doesn’t catch the words and the man goes back to work almost straightaway. Here they are too busy even to worry about the fire, although the blue flames show above the rooftops.

As they continue to dodge through the crowds, George, though still out of breath, wears a face of stone. He fixes his gaze directly ahead as though intent upon an errand. A group of barefoot boys run past, splashing in the horses’ urine which runs in streams between the cobbles. George turns a corner, heading east and glancing back to make sure Jemma follows. She does so, clutching the baby, keeping far enough behind to seem unconnected as has always been their habit in London. She has her hood pulled low over her head now, another shield against curious glances, although it pricks the interest of some.

A commotion—the barking of a dog and some raised voices—causes George to turn. He sees the wiry animal pulling with its bared teeth upon Jemma’s robe. Jemma tries to pull away and the baby starts crying in terror as the animal growls.
Damn curs that can so easily sense fear!
George thinks. He runs back and goes to kick the animal, which immediately slinks away.

They continue without further delay along the street, going back to single file. But a barrel-chested man behind a stall, the dog owner, it seems, raises his hand and clicks his fingers at George.

“Sir, sir!” he shouts, then vaults over his table and runs after them, clicking his fingers all the way. George speeds up and signals Jemma to do the same. But the shopkeeper follows.

“I’ll give you three sovereigns for her,” he calls through the crowd. George tries to wave him away, but he follows.

“Four. Four for her and the child.”

George increases his pace again and checks to make sure Jemma is keeping up.

“Are you the owner, sir? Yes, you!”

Now people begin to stare at the strange procession. Man, followed by black woman and child, followed by shopkeeper with arm held high and fingers clicking.

George turns right, heading down the main thoroughfare toward London Bridge and back to the river again. He makes sure Jemma is following. She is, but the shopkeeper is gaining upon her, still shouting, still clicking his fingers. George slows a little and waits for Jemma. A bear’s watery black eye fixes upon George with curiosity as its owner tugs its reins and muzzle. As soon as Jemma catches up, George reaches backward and yanks the hem of her robe, guiding her as he scoots through a large group of street minstrels, jugglers and clowns. He weaves in and out, trying to lose their pursuer. A skittle hits George on the side of the head and clatters to the cobbles. The performer curses him. But he pays no notice and meanders through the crowds at an ever increasing pace, reaching behind occasionally and tugging Jemma’s robe to make sure she is following.

“Where are we going?” Jemma whispers.

“We have to get to the river,” he says. He knows this is still the most likely way to escape London. Also, they might lose themselves among the huddled masses which congregate there.

Soon London Bridge comes into view.

“Won’t they be looking for us there?” asks Jemma, catching up and walking alongside for a moment.

George stares at the ramshackle dwellings on the bridge, with yellow lights showing in the narrow turret windows. A dozen long poles over the archway entrance stick up like the spokes of a broken wheel; the heads of a dozen miscreants show like dark cannon balls against the moonlight.

“It’s the last place they’ll look,” George tells her. “They won’t be expecting us to return this close to where we were living before.”

As they come closer to the water, George sees a group of boys under the archway, playing some game, kicking a heavy rock about. They seem excited and some of them keep looking to the west and pointing. When George reaches the dockside, he scans upriver to see the attraction. There the barge still burns like an eternal blue torch. It has been pushed off from the wharf— a precaution perhaps against setting the city on fire. The brandy-fueled flames seem to ignite the black river with their reflection. All along the dockside for half a mile, crowds stand and stare.

“The devil,” he hears an old man murmur. Others around him grumble in agreement, adding something to the tale which George cannot catch. George checks to his left and finds Jemma still huddled in her robe. He wants to reach out and touch her but dares not in the crowds.

A boy kicks the heavy rock, which scuds along the ground and strikes with some force against George’s shin. It comes to rest between his feet. George looks down and sees two hollow orbs staring up at him from a face of scorched, peeling flesh. George gazes up toward the bridge’s tower and sees that one of the poles has lost a head. Then he looks down at the boy, a fresh-faced youth, fair and—he can make out in the darkness—with freckles. The boy’s friends stand in a circle behind him, waiting.

“Sorry, sir,” he says. “Can we have it back, please?”

George sighs. He feels the oddest sensation that the soles of his feet are burning. It is as though he is sinking into the hot clay, as if red tongues of fire will rise to greet him any moment and swallow all of the people around him, women, children and men, so they may descend together into the flesh-shrivelling flames of the nightmare city.

George kicks the head back. It rolls to the boy, who picks it up and throws it into the waiting scrum of his friends. They start kicking it about afresh, laughing and barging each other to gain possession.

George takes Jemma’s hand. It’s so dark and Jemma is so well huddled within her robe that he feels no one will pay them any attention, particularly when most are quite taken up with the spectacle of the burning barge. George leads Jemma down a few steps to the water’s edge and eyes the bank to the left. It seems wide and dark enough to provide shelter for the night as long as it doesn’t rain. He is about to suggest this when there is a tug at his sleeve and he hears his name.

“Captain Dawson,” says the small voice.

George turns and looks down. It is Tom Spurrell, the messenger boy from St. John’s.

A fierce look must have come into George’s face because the boy backs off a little and raises his hands.

“Don’t, don’t, I’m on your side,” he says.

George quickly surveys all the people around him, expecting to see the men from the gangplank.
It is surely a trap
, he thinks. But he sees only children playing and figures by the water wrapped against the cold, watching the blue flames rise in the distance.

“What are you doing here?” George demands.

“I’ve been following you,” the boy replies with surprising frankness. His countenance is open and he is anything but furtive.

“Who for? Whitbourne?”

“No,” he says, wide-eyed. His feigned innocence annoys George.

“I know you must have come from New-found-land on Whitbourne’s ship. Don’t lie to me.”

“Yes, but it was Sir Killigrew who took me on as a servant when I arrived,” the boy replies.

George looks at the boy’s dull appearance, his plain and worn tunic, his tattered shoes, one toe poking out. He looks just like he used to in St. John’s, just a couple of inches taller.