Chapter 23 #2
The inside smelled of rotting wood and trapped sewage.
Together we lifted the small boat off the pegs, flipped it, and dropped it into the water carefully so it didn’t slap or overturn.
Art climbed in and folded himself into a small shape, drawing his knees to his chin.
I followed, and James gave me the oars to hold until he pushed us away from the piling.
Despite the late hour, half a dozen boats and ships were within sight. The Thames was never empty.
James took the oars back, dropped them into the metal oarlocks, and settled in with his back to me, rowing us away from shore and through the inky water toward our landmark, Blackfriars Bridge, the gaps between the carved posts of the guardrail showing like Belgian lace in the moonlight.
Under the bridge we went, James’s steady stroke bringing us near the opening where the Fleet poured into the Thames.
The bells of a nearby church chimed two, the sound a doleful echo.
Art lit the lantern, keeping it dim, as the boat slid toward the dark semicircle of the tunnel above the water.
Though it was unnecessary, I instinctively ducked going inside.
The Fleet was still deep and moving quickly, with fits and starts, so it was hard work rowing upstream, and James had sweat on his brow by the time we reached the third tunnel, the one that led to Simonson’s.
“I’m turning,” he warned us. I tightened my grip on the thwart, and an agile maneuvering of oars pivoted the boat into a smaller waterway.
Immediately the rushing noise subsided, and the boat’s hull scraped against the side of the tunnel.
“Go on, get out,” James said. “It should be a foot deep at most.”
The boat rocked as Art and I shifted our weight.
I clambered out first, awkwardly, the cold water reaching just below my knee, and Art climbed out after me.
But as James stepped out, a sudden rush of water from the main river flung the boat into the wall—with James’s leg caught between the two.
He managed to avoid dropping the lamp, which would have cast us all into utter darkness, but his shoulder met the stone with a thunk.
“Merde,” burst from him in a hoarse whisper.
I seized the lamp from his hand as Art sprang forward to help James get out from behind the boat. James hopped, and it was clear he could put no weight on the leg.
James let out a soft groan and lifted his foot into the boat to roll his trousers. Even before he reached the place where the boat had struck him, I could see the blood. The metal gunwale had cut the skin, a three-inch gash straight across.
“Keep i’ up. The water’s fe’id and full o’ poisons,” Art said as he reached into his bag.
He withdrew a narrow roll of silk fabric and wrapped James’s leg half a dozen times, so deftly I wondered if he was a surgeon on top of everything else.
“Likely the bone’s cracked,” Art said. “This’ll stanch the bleedin’, but we should get ou’ of here. ”
“No,” James barked. “I’ll stay here with the boat. You go. You know everything you need.”
“James,” I said.
He was shaking his head at me. “I’d agree with you if we had another night, but we don’t.”
I swallowed down my aching regret as I watched Art bending his head to bite a small rip in the cloth’s end, then tearing it lengthwise, so he could wrap the split bandage opposite ways and tie a knot. “Sit down and stay still, wi’ your leg up,” Art said.
“What’s the mark?” I asked James. “The one you made on the ladder?”
“I scraped an X on the third rung.”
“I hate this,” I said. “Leaving you.”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m fine. Just don’t dawdle.” He managed a smile. “Good luck. Don’t forget the string. Tie it there.” He pointed to a jagged bit of metal sticking out of the curved wall.
Art started down the tunnel, holding the lamp. I turned around to see James one last time, and he was watching. The light was dim, and only then did I realize we would be leaving him alone in utter darkness.
I touched my fingertips to my mouth and extended them toward him, a kiss.
He lifted his chin in reply. Then I turned and followed Art, pausing to take the yarn from my coat pocket.
I tied the end where James indicated, knotting it three times to make sure it was secure, and began to unwind it.
We would need it to guide us to the proper ladder, for we were only twenty steps along, fighting the mild current, and I already saw a set of metal bars ahead of us to the right.
God only knew how many there were along this stretch.
The lantern light cast our shadows, huge and misshapen, on the curved walls of rough-hewn stone.
About a hundred yards on, a rope ladder, the metal bars shining in the light of the lamp, dangled from above instead of being attached to the wall.
Art glanced at the ball of yarn in my hand, and I shook my head. “Not yet.”
We went on, and I felt the ball shrink ever faster until it was only a string a few inches long.
I stretched it taut and walked on, and as my fingers reached the very end, we saw a set of half a dozen metal rods unevenly spaced in the wall leading up.
I handed Art the end of the string and stepped toward the bars.
They looked none too sturdy, but I reached up and dangled from one.
While it wobbled, it held my weight. I set a foot on the bottom rung, reaching upward.
“Raise the light,” I said. I wanted to see if I could find James’s scratch—and there it was, an X on the side.
“Found the mark. Let go the string.” We didn’t need it anymore, and it would sink and drift down current.
On the slim chance smugglers came through here in the next hour, I wanted no sign of which ladder we’d climbed.
Behind me, Art climbed one-handed, holding the lantern, and by its light I could see the latch.
It was rusty from disuse, but James had told me to expect that, and the door wasn’t heavy; I’d be able to manage it.
From my pocket, I removed a pair of James’s pliers, heavier than those I used for jewelry, and eased the metal bar from the hook.
Gently, I pushed up, half an inch, feeling resistance from the hinges.
Art handed up the jar of grease, and I slathered some to prevent a squawk of metal against metal, waiting a moment before pushing the door up all the way.
I climbed out, turning to take the lantern from Art.
A quick look around confirmed James’s description: the space was less than three feet wide, windowless, with walls of plaster and wooden beams above.
Art stepped out and laid the trapdoor back in place, and we turned to the right, to a narrow door.
I held the lamp while Art withdrew his set of picks from his pocket.
Cold air struck my wet ankles and feet.
Art went to work. “Do you need more light?” I asked, my voice low. I could turn up the lamp, but I wanted to save our oil for the trip back.
“No. I do i’ by touch,” he said.
His eyes were closed.
It recalled the moment in the cupboard when I’d closed my own.
The lock snicked. “There,” he said. He’d opened it in under two minutes.
My clenched shoulders eased with relief. James’s injury had set us back, certainly, but the luck I’d asked him to find was with us.
Art swung open the door and stepped back. He had an odd look on his face.
I raised the lantern so I could see why.
It was a bloody brick wall.