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“Yes, of course I’ll come,” Monk answered. “I’ll get dressed and be down in three or four minutes. Tell him I’ll be there.”
“Yes, sir,” Scuff said, going out and closing the door.
“I’m sorry,” Monk told Hester. “She broke him. He won’t forgive her for that. He’ll probably kill her one day, but slowly. He’ll make her suffer first.”
She sat up. “Why didn’t they arrest him last night?” She started to get out of bed.
“For what?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know! I suppose she knew that, too!”
“Stay there.” He pushed her gently back, and kissed her. “There’s nothing you can do. You did it already, finding Tucker.”
“Are you going to take Hooper?” she asked.
“There’s no time. We can manage the Summer Wind with just two of us.” He pulled on his clothes, the heaviest he could find: thick trousers, socks, sea boots, and a Guernsey sweater. He would get his pea coat from downstairs. There was no time to shave, although no need. He kissed her quickly. He hesitated a second, then let go of her and went to the door.
In the hall, the gaslight was turned up high. He went down the stairs and found Gillander, ashen-faced and unshaven, in the hall.
“She went to Lady York’s house last night, but Clive broke in and took her. It was their footman that came to tell me. Are you ready?” He did not waste time in apologies for getting him out of bed.
Before Monk could answer Scuff came in, looking almost like a man in his thick, river-edge clothes and a pea coat not much different from Monk’s. He, too, was wearing sea boots.
Monk drew in breath to say he could not come, but Gillander spoke first.
“Good man,” he said briefly, then opened the door to the darkness outside. Scuff went straight after him, ahead of Monk.
There was a hansom at the curb and Gillander gave the driver instructions for the dockside as he swung in. Scuff and Monk followed him.
They rode in silence. There was nothing to ask because Gillander himself would know little until they reached the water. It did not matter now who had brought him the news, only how fast they could get the Summer Wind under sail and go after Clive.
The streets were dark and wet and the wind was rising. They moved as fast as they could. The cabbie must have a good horse to go at this speed.
They pulled up at the dockside and Gillander handed the driver a fistful of coins. It must have been a couple of pounds’ worth! The man looked at it, saw the silver in the light of his carriage lamps, and thanked him.
The Summer Wind was moored close in and its rowing boat tied up at the foot of the steps. They went down carefully, knowing the wet stones would be slippery. Without a word they got into the boat and loosed it. Monk and Gillander took the oars, pulling together, falling into rhythm without a word.
They rowed toward the lee side of Gillander’s ship. The river was already choppy and the sky overhead dense with cloud. The low moon in the west gave a little light so the other ships nearby rode on glimmering water, now and then catching a crest of white foam.
It was going to be a rough night. They would be able to recognize Clive’s ship only by its rigging—if Gillander knew it. It was named the Spindrift, and Monk reckoned it would be no more than a mile ahead of them. If the moon clouded over completely, they would see only its riding lights.
He had no more time to think. They shipped the oars and set about climbing up the ropes to board the schooner, then winched up the smaller rowboat and made it fast.
“We’ll put up the foresail,” Gillander said, looking at Monk. Then he turned to Scuff. “D’you know how to raise the anchor?”
“No, sir. I’m a doctor. I can sew but not sail,” Scuff replied, regret in his voice.
“Please God we won’t need those skills,” Gillander answered him. “Just keep out of the way, and do as you’re told.”
Actually, Scuff had underestimated his own natural common sense. As they raised the foresail Gillander raised the anchor and steered them out into the mainstream of the river and the choppy tide. It was hard work. The wind was strong, and increasing all the time. It pulled hard as the sail filled and billowed out.
Gillander yelled, “Keep it short!” but Monk was already lashing the ropes. The ship plowed forward, slamming down hard on the water and sending the spray high.
It took several minutes to get it exactly right, Gillander at the wheel and Monk on the foredeck, now and then shouting back. They worked as one, as if it were long seasoned in habit. They passed many ships moored ready to unload their cargoes, in their turn. It was too early for the strings of barges to be moving yet, but of course there were the few ferries that ran all night.
Monk stared forward all the time into the darkness, watching, signaling what he saw. Gillander had told him that Clive’s boat was also a two-master. It was swift and graceful, too: a sailor’s ship. This was going to be a test of skills, and of courage. Who could sail closest to the wind? Who could turn and tack the most smoothly, judge the wind and the current exactly right? The navigation would be largely by sight, judging the distance of the lights, until they were clear of the Estuary. After that, in the open sea, only speed would matter.
The wind was increasing all the time, from the northeast. If it swung around it would make a difference, especially if it bore due west. Then it would be directly against them, beating them back toward the coast of England, where they would risk either running aground on the shoals, or striking the rocks and being broken into pieces.
