As the carriage drew up outside warehouse number twelve, building number two, North Quay of the London Docks, Francis leaned forward in his seat and pressed his face to the window.
“What the devil is that?”
The usually empty berth out the front of the warehouse which adjoined his own was occupied. A strange ship was moored at the wharf. And it was of such an unusual construction that it immediately captured his interest.
Francis was still staring at the vessel long after he had climbed out of the carriage. Rather than his usual polite ‘thank you’, he gave a halfhearted farewell wave to the Saunders’s family driver.
Walking closer, he was greeted with the sight of an ornate crowned lion which sat proudly at the ship’s bow. Under the masthead was a red and white plaque with the year 1703 emblazoned on it. He hadn’t ever seen a ship that old which was still in service.
Francis narrowed his eyes. He knew enough about boats to know that something wasn’t quite right. The ship was old, and yet, it clearly had some modern features. It was a three-masted topsail schooner, which correctly matched its age, but the sails were of a later design. It appeared that someone had taken a one-hundred-year-old ship and given it a major refit. A costly exercise in anyone’s language.
Why would you do that? Why not simply have a new ship built?
Intrigued, he wandered past the row of low-roofed pavilions which were located between the warehouse buildings and the waterfront. When he got to the fourth of these, he stopped. Just as the berth was no longer empty, neither was the pavilion. In the spot where he normally sat and enjoyed a quiet midafternoon coffee, numerous crates and barrels had been stacked.
“Where is all this coming from?” he asked, throwing up his hands.
He didn’t like surprises. Spontaneity made him uncomfortable. Francis liked the surety that came with well-ordered plans, especially the ones which he personally created and commanded. Other people making unexpected changes set his nerves on edge.
“Coming through,” came the cry from a group of sailors who were lugging a large wooden chest. They were bearing down on him at a fast rate, and Francis barely had time to step out of the way as they passed him by.
More dockworkers followed. A small procession made its way from the lion ship, through the pavilion, and across the service road right up to the warehouse next door to the one occupied by the Saunders Shipping Company.
If the sight of the odd ship and its cargo hadn’t already knocked Francis for six, bearing witness to the front door being opened, and the chest being carried inside would have done the trick. His mouth snapped shut.
Someone had moved into warehouse number fourteen.
This couldn’t be happening. In his mind, he had already claimed it as his, along with the dockside berth, and the cargo-sorting pavilion. The space along the wharf embankment from number twelve to number fourteen and the short gap beyond was meant to be his. A small kingdom over which he intended to rule.
That’s mine.
His plans for managing the new spice contract rested on him being able to take over the lease of the long-empty premises next door. Without them, he would struggle to meet the terms of the tender.
“Damn,” he muttered.
Leaving home this morning, he had gone to an important appointment with his banker. A meeting during which it had been made plain to Francis that he would need to find a great deal more money if he planned to grow the Saunders Shipping Company. The bank had offered to lend him money but at an eye-wateringly high interest rate. He had politely refused the loan.
He didn’t want to be in debt to the bank; nor did he wish to ask any of the extended Radley family for a private loan. When he took over from his father, Francis wanted it to be on his terms. Saunders Shipping would grow in the years to come, but he was determined that it could only be funded by the money he made. Francis Saunders was going to be known throughout London society as a self-made man.
Securing the lucrative spice contract was crucial to his plans for expansion. As was the empty warehouse next door where he had intended to store the spices. The warehouse which had, until today, been vacate for almost two years. Francis’s day was fast turning into a disaster.
He needed money. And now it looked like he had lost the warehouse.
Who are these people? And how did they get a hold of the keys to the warehouse? I’ve been trying to get the owner to lease it to me for months.
Watching the activity on the dockside, his mood slowly darkened. From the way the sailors from the lion ship, worked, it was obvious they knew what they were doing. This was a professional outfit. He would look foolish if he marched up to them and demanded that they stop unloading the cargo.
Turning from the dockside, Francis headed toward the entrance to the Saunders Shipping Company. The heat of his temper soared as he caught sight of the barrels and piles of rope sitting either side of the door.
Who had dumped all that rubbish in front of his offices?
He stopped to check out the markings on the side of one of the barrels, ready to go and have firm words with its owner. The name had him swearing under his breath.
Saunders Shipping Company. Warehouse 12, Building 2, North Quay, London Docks.
It was one of his own barrels. A quick glance at the rest of them revealed the same result.
Lifting his head, he took in the tidy, clear walkway out the front of number fourteen. It wasn’t normally in that sort of neat condition. Mostly because it was where he dumped his extra barrels and odd bits of rope.
