Page 14 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

Monk looked farther out where another schooner was riding at anchor, this one with six masts.

“The Liza Jones?” The first man raised his eyebrows. “South America; I ’eard Brazil. Dunno if that’s right. Could be a load of ’ogwash. Wot der they bring in from Brazil, Bert?”

“I dunno,” Bert answered. “Wood? Coffee? Chocolate, mebbe? Don’t make no difference ter us. It’ll all be ’eavy an’ awkward. Every day I say I’ll never carry that bleedin’ stuff again, an’ then every night I get so cold I’d carry the devil piggyback just fer a fire an’ a roof over me ’ead.”

“Yeah. . an’ all,” his friend agreed. He gave a warning glance at Monk. “First come, first served, eh? Remember that an’ yer won’t come ter no ’arm. ’Less yer fall in the water, like, or some bastard drops a load on yer foot.” The implied warning was as clear as the hard light on the water.

Actually, Monk had no desire whatever to work at the backbreaking job of unloading, but he must not appear unworthy, or he would awaken suspicion. “That would be very foolish,” he observed.

They went on talking desultorily, speaking of cargoes from all around the world: India; Australia; Argentina; the wild coasts of Canada, where they said tides rose and fell forty feet in a matter of hours.

“Ever bin ter sea?” Bert asked curiously.

“No,” Monk replied.

“Thought not.” There was a benign contempt in his face. “I ’ave. Seen the fever jungles o’ Central America, an’ I in’t never goin’ there again. Frighten the bleedin’ life out o’ yer. Sooner see the midnight sun up Norway an’ the Arctic, like. Freezin’ ter death’d be quick. Saw a feller go overboard up there once. Got ’im out, but ’e were dead. The cold does it. Quicker than the fever, an’ cleaner. If I got the yellow fever I’d cut me own throat sooner’n wait ter die of it.”

“Me an’ all,” his friend agreed.

They spoke a little longer. Monk wanted to ask about cargoes being stolen, and where they would be sold, but he could not afford to arouse suspicion. They were all facing the water when a barge went by, and they could not help seeing the lumpers knock a few pieces of coal off into the shallow water where at the next ebb it would be low enough for the mudlarks to find it and pick it up. No one made any remark. It was an accepted part of life. But it stirred a thought in Monk’s mind. Could the ivory have been moved like that, dropped off the Maude Idris in the dark onto the barges on their way up or downstream? It would take only moments to move canvas to conceal them. He must find which light

ermen were out that night and follow it up.

The foreman came from one of the loading gangs, looking for two men. Monk was intensely relieved he did not want three, but he affected disappointment-although not deep enough for the men to start thinking of another ship that might want him.

He did not manage to avoid a small errand, for which he was paid sixpence. He spent the next two hours asking about which barges moved at night, and learned that there were very few indeed, and only with the tide, which-according to the time of Hodge’s death-would have been upstream, towards the morning high water. Painstakingly, he accounted for all of them.

He bought a hot pie and a piece of cake for lunch, with another cup of tea. It was late, after one o’clock, and he had never felt colder in his life. No alley in the city, however ice-bound or wind-funneled, could match the cutting edge of the wind off the water and the sting of the salt. His recent cases of petty theft, when he had spent his time in offices and the servants’ quarters of other peoples’ houses, had made him soft. He realized it now with acute discomfort.

He sat down on a pile of timber and old ropes which was sheltered from the wind, and began to eat.

He was halfway through the pie, relishing the hot meat, when he realized that the shadow next to the pile of boxes to his left was actually a small boy wearing a ragged coat with a cloth cap pulled over his ears. His feet were bare, streaked with dirt and blue with cold.

“Do you want some pie?” Monk said aloud. “Half?”

The child looked at him suspiciously. “Wha’ for?”

“Well, if I were you, I’d eat it!” Monk snapped. “Or shall I give it to the gulls?”

“Yer don’ wan’ it, I’ll take it,” the child replied quickly, stretching out his hand, then pulling it back again, as if the thought were too good to believe.

Monk took a last bite from the pie and handed it over. He drank the rest of the tea before his better nature lost him that as well.

The child sat down beside him on a stump of wood and ate all of the pie solemnly and with concentration, then he spoke. “Yer lookin’ fer work?” he said, watching Monk’s face. “Or yer a thief?” There was no malice or contempt in his voice, simply the enquiry one stranger might make of another, by way of introduction.

“I’m looking for work,” Monk replied. Then he added quickly, “Not that I’m sure I want to find any.”

“If yer don’t work, an’ yer in’t a thief, where’d yer get the pie?” the child said reasonably. “An’ the cake?” he added.

“Do you want half?” Monk asked. “When I say I don’t want work, I mean I don’t want to load or unload cargo,” he amended. “I don’t mind the odd message now and then.”

“Oh.” The child thought. “Reckon as I might ’elp yer wi’ that, now an’ then, like,” he said generously. “Yeah, I’ll ’ave a piece o’ yer cake. I don’t mind if I do.” He held out his hand, palm upward.

Monk carefully divided the cake and gave him half. “What’s your name?” he enquired.

“Scuff,” the boy replied. “Wot’s yours?”

“Monk.”

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