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Barges! On the river!
He charged across the street, colliding with a costermonger’s cart, extricating himself with difficulty amid an array of curses from several passersby. He yelled an apology over his shoulder and sprinted down Dowgate Hill and along the narrow cut down to the stairs just as the last barge drew level. He yelled, waving both his arms, signaling the barge to slow down.
The bargee must have thought it was some kind of warning. He eased a little, dropping back all the weight that his ships would allow. It was enough for Monk to run and leap. He barely made it. Without the bargee’s frantic help he would have fallen back into the icy water. As it was, he was soaked from the waist down and had to be hauled sodden and shaking onto the deck.
“Wot the ’ell’s the matter?” the bargee demanded.
“Got to get to the S-Surrey D-Dock!” Monk stuttered, shaking with cold. “Before the tide …”
“Missed yer ship, ’ave yer?” the bargee said with a laugh. “Yer’ll be lucky if they ’ave yer. W’ere yer bin? Some ’ore’ouse up Devil’s Acre? Gaw’ lummy, yer look like ’ell! Wot ship d’yer want, mate?”
“S-Summer R-Rose!” Monk found he could not control the shaking.
“That ol’ bucket! Yer’d be better missin’ it, believe me.” The bargee bent his back and pushed harder on his heavy pole, steering with almost absentminded skill.
Monk debated for a few moments whether to tell the man the truth or not. He might help … he might not give a damn. He might even make his own extra money in the trade.
They were passing under London Bridge.
He was weary of lying. He hated being tired and cold and filthy, and pretending he was something he was not.
“They’ve taken two girls to sell in France, or wherever they send them after that.”
The bargee looked at him curiously, trying to read his face.
“Oh, yeah? What are they ter you, those two girls, then?”
“Their father died and their mother discarded them. They are disfigured, and deaf. Their father’s sister is a friend of mine. She’s been looking for them for years.” It was a slight bending of the truth—in fact, but not in essence.
“Left it a bit late, ’aven’t yer?” The bargee looked sympathetic, almost believing.
“They’re shipping them out because they know I’m after them,” Monk explained. “It’s my fault!” he added bitterly.
The bargee regarded the comment critically. “Yer’d be better on something a bit faster’n me,” he said with feeling.
“I know that!” Monk retorted. “But you’re all I’ve got.”
The bargee grinned and turned to look upstream. He stayed balanced for several moments while they drifted gradually past the bridge and towards the looming mass of the Tower of London, gray turreted against the sky.
Monk was so tense with the passion of frustration he could have screamed, punched something with all his strength as they seemed to move even more and more slowly.
A small, light fishing boat was corning up behind them, skimming rapidly almost over the surface of the water.
The bargee put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle.
A figure on the fishing boat cocked his head.
The bargee whistled again, waving his arms in what seemed to be some signal language.
The fishing boat changed course to come closer, then closer again.
“Go on!” the bargee shouted at Monk. “Tell ’em wot yer tol’ me—an’ good luck to yer!”
“Thank you!” Monk said with profound sincerity, and took a flying leap for the fishing boat.
It was farther than he thought, and again he barely made it, being caught by strong hands and amid a good deal of ribald laughter. He told the men on the small boat his need, and they were willing enough to help, even eager. They put up more sail and tacked and veered dangerously through the current and across the bows of other ships, and were at the Surrey Docks half an hour before slack water and the turn of the tide.
They even helped him look for the Summer Rose.
