Chapter 1
Entrance to Regent's Canal
Neap Tide
Warrick gave his shaggy head a sharp shake back and forth, as if physically assaulting the ringing in his ears might bring some small relief.
The early dawn neap tide barely made a ripple in the brackish Thames water, but there was no mistaking the powerful surge beneath his feet tugging at the deck of the lighterman's sleek, small ship.
Eddie Caskill's swift moving skiff felt like an old friend beneath the deft moves of Warrick's bare feet, which served to keep him from being pitched into the murky depths of the Thames.
Throwing out a stone for an anchor to steady the lighterman could have deadly consequences.
Circus performers walking tightropes whilst balancing cups and plates had nothing on The Horsemen's gangs who haunted the Thames docks.
"Oy--," was the only warning he got from his right-hand man Gordy Miller before a heavy bale of silks sailed close to his head.
He balanced on the balls of his feet and sensed the exact moment he had to lift his arms to lower the prize to the narrow deck.
Three more similarly bound bundles from the heavily laden East Indiaman flew toward him within seconds.
He caught each with deft ease before settling back down between the gunnels in preparation to row.
It was time to head in toward the docks.
He sucked the river stench of death and decay into his lungs, as familiar as the scent of a lover. His trusty boarding axe slung across his back glittered in the pale morning light as if beckoning the unwary to try their luck or perhaps risk certain death.
There was a fine swath of time for redistributing the wealth of the heavily laden merchant ships.
Too little, and the army of thieves would have wasted a carefully planned, fog-shrouded outing.
Too much...and the River Police would have the lot of them thrown into gaol, although he was fairly confident the "gifts" he and his brothers had distributed amongst the ranks of the river force would ensure safe passage.
However, there was a limit to how long the recently formed force would look the other way.
There was also the matter of greed. There was indeed a limit to the amount of theft the powerful shipping owners would tolerate.
Warrick Dyer was the devil they knew. And they calculated as a business cost the small percent he and his men skimmed from the thousands of cargoes passing through their docks and warehouses.
They also knew The Four Horsemen kept a semblance of peace amongst the rookeries along the Thames which kept commerce flowing reasonably well.
The last thing the East India Company and other shipping firms wanted was to have to deal with warring gangs along the riverfront.
Warrick had learned the way of the world well during the years of his service in the Royal Navy.
He'd been sold to a press crew at the age of eleven.
From that time on, his clever mind and cunning approach to survival had served him well.
Captain Lawrence swore he'd never seen a swab who could board an enemy ship like Warrick.
He'd risen from an eleven-year-old powder monkey delivering ordinance to the greedy ship's cannons to a first lieutenant by the time his ship, the HMS Pelorus, was paid off before being delivered to the wrecker's yard.
With England no longer at war, only men with highly placed benefactors in the Admiralty were lucky enough to advance to post captain.
Everyone else was banished ashore on half pay.
Which suited Warrick just fine. He was nineteen years old, and he already knew where his future lay.
In his time at sea, he'd taken two prize ships and brought them safely back to Portsmouth.
Unfortunately, other midshipmen with considerably less cunning and intelligence ended up as captains of the ships once they were repaired and back into the fray across the channel.
At the end of his service, however, the captain of the Pelorus had ensured that Warrick received the prize money he'd earned for seizing the two French ships.
If the Admiralty had no need of what he'd learned from eight long years of service during the endless warring with the Frenchies, he knew just the people who could benefit most from what he knew -- his three brothers who ran the most successful gangs in the rookeries.
It was high time they had someone who could reap the benefits of the docks lining the busiest port in the world, London along the Thames.
Warrick stared across at his tough helper, Gordy.
His hair hung down to his shoulders, and his well-muscled body was short compared to the rest of his crew.
Lest anyone make the fatal mistake of assuming the man was an easy victim, one glance at his weathered, scarred face lit up by steely gray eyes and the dull gleam of a gold earring in one ear was enough to give any riverfront ruffian pause.
Gordy returned Warrick's stare with a steady gaze of his own.
"It's time, guv. Enough. Let's get out of here.
" Without a word, the man who'd been at Warrick's side for too many shore sorties to remember during his Royal Navy days slipped down between the gunnels and began to row, his powerful shoulders bulging.
Warrick used a long pole to push them away from the merchant ship and out into the current.
Once they regained the north shore, they'd stash their morning's take in plain sight in the bowels of a riverfront warehouse with a legitimate chandlery owned by The Horsemen filling the first floor.
The third gang member on the sturdy, flat boat was Eddie, an actual lighterman who worked most of the day legally taking cargo off the huge merchant ships that lumbered up the Thames from the eastern seaway.
After lightening, the heavy ships were able to float into the docks at high tide for a berth where they could be totally emptied of cargo and then re-provisioned for the next voyage out.
And Eddie was one of a bevy of lightermen who delivered that portion of the cargoes to the owners' legitimate warehouses.
Most owners knew the skimming took place but looked the other way. As long as The Horsemen didn't get greedy and kept to the agreed-upon two percent only, the shipping owners were happy, and, in turn, the gangs on Warrick's patch kept the peace on the London docks.
As they neared the quay, he saw three figures waiting to help them tie off.
Three tall, imposing familiar figures. All of his brothers were waiting for him.
Whatever they had to tell him obviously couldn't wait until he got back to his warehouse that served as both home and headquarters for his, um, business endeavors.
All three of his brothers glowering at the same time was never a good sign.
Con caught the lighterman's lines and expertly looped them fast before turning to help Warrick unload the bales of silk. The forbidding look on Con's face meant bad news was imminent. When his oldest brother started to speak, Fam interrupted. "We've got a problem."
"Can whatever's got you all so worked up at least wait until we get someplace a little less public before you swabs spill your guts?"
Ban laughed and gave Warrick a brotherly back slap. "You are such a diplomat. Let's go to The Angel and take over a rear table by the door that leads down to the river...just in case."
When Warrick glanced back at Gordy and Eddie, both men gave him nods. Gordy added a small salute and added, "We've got this, guv. We'll finish unloading and take these to the warehouse."
Warrick turned back to his brothers. "Let's find out whatever's got you three primed for battle."
The very last table in The Angel before the long staircase down to the river out the back door was empty.
This was one of the Horsemen's favorite places to gather, and they'd used the escape path on more than one occasion.
Staying on top of the leadership of London's east-end gangs was not easy, not to mention perilous.
Warrick stared around the table, sliding his gaze from one brother to the next. What the hell were they going to wring their hands about this time?
Con sighed, stretched his long legs out to the side of his chair, and launched into a description of the latest disaster. "Someone's stealing from Rowe Shipping and making it look like we did it."
Fam couldn't help himself. He leaned forward and, his voice low, added, "And...as if that weren't bad enough, they're also making it look like we're using kidnapped children to sell the ill-gotten goods."
"Wait a minute," Warrick interrupted, whilst grabbing a pint of ale off the tray Maggie Church had just deposited on their table.
She never bothered asking them what they wanted.
She knew. she'd worked at the Angel for years, and she'd known The Horsemen since their early days when they were still fighting to take over Bill Dyer's old gangs.
"Do you think it's possible old man Rowe's inflating his losses to collect more from Lloyd's?" Warrick took a deep draught of his ale and slammed the tankard back down on the battered wooden table top.
"Old man Rowe's dead," Ban filled in. "Turned toes up a fortnight ago in his mistress's bed."
"Well, who in the hell's in charge now?"
Con gave Warrick a slow, wicked smile. "His missus, Beatrice Rowe."
"What? A woman running one of England's biggest shipping concerns?" Warrick didn't miss a low chuckle from Maggie who'd swung past to check to see if their drinks needed freshening.
"She's been running it all these years whilst the old man's been gambling and whoring," Fam helpfully supplied. "And she's damned good at it. Doesn't overlook a farthing gone missing."
"Does she know about our two percent?"