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The River Police boats were on the far side of the dock, at the opposite steps. Monk touched Marbury’s arm and pointed away. Marbury followed him the twenty yards back to where they were moored and down to the water. They climbed into their boats quickly and Walcott, at the back oar, pulled away and round the corner to the open water. The current felt stronger.
They were pulling out into the river, into the main stream of the flood tide. They could see glimpses of the barge ahead of them. The other police boat was invisible.
Walcott was facing Monk, back to the prow, as all oarsmen were. Occasional lit windows and strings of lights along the street were visible where the alley ran down between warehouses to the shore.
“Want a hand?” Marbury offered.
“Think I can’t manage on my own because I’ve not got arms a yard long?” Walcott replied.
Marbury ignored him.
Monk was searching the river ahead for the other boat, with Hooper, Bathurst, and Laker in it. He could not see them.
There was no sound but that of the oars and the rush of the water, and far away a man shouting. Where the hell were they?
Then Monk saw them twenty yards ahead, almost level with the barge. What the devil was Hooper doing so close? Then he realized: the current was growing stronger as they came to a tighter bend in the river. He was moving out to avoid the eddies between the piers of London Bridge. He was not paying attention, and they had come much further than he thought. What were they making for? Not a ship, but another warehouse.
The barge was passing right under the shadow of the bridge. It was already out of sight. What if it went right round, turned, and came back?
“Steady!” Monk commanded.
Walcott dug in more deeply. “We’ll lose them,” he said. “Sir, tide’s helping.” He dug in and pulled deeply again, ignoring the order.
Marbury half rose to his feet, as if to take the oars from him by force.
“You’ll have us in the water, you fool!” Walcott said. “Or is that what you want?” He dug the left oar in deeply, and the right one came out of the water, slicing the wave and drenching Marbury with it.
Marbury swayed and fell over sideways, landing hard on the gunwale.
“Sit down!” Monk grated between his teeth. “Are you trying to draw the attention of everybody in the bloody river?” His mind was racing. Had that been deliberate? Whether they said it or not, all the regular men suspected Walcott or Marbury. Did Walcott and Marbury suspect each other? Or did one of them know because it was him? And he had to blame the other, for his own survival?
It was Monk’s task to know which one—and save the other. That man’s life was in his hands, depending on his skill and his judgment, which had become so flawed.
Marbury sat down and picked up the oar. He dug it into the water and pulled it hard enough to send the bow sharply to the port.
Monk swore under his breath, but said nothing more. They passed under the Queen Street bridge. Ahead of them, the barge was sliding into the shadow of Blackfriars Bridge, and the light of the streetlamps shone in bright patterns on the water. They were distorted near the piers, by the strength of the current eddying and pulling under. Monk knew only too well how powerful it was. Small boats could be caught and smashed against the pillars, then sucked down.
“Pull out!” he shouted. He could feel the boat slewing sideways out of control. He heard the fear in his own voice. There was nothi
ng he could do. To take the oar from Walcott now would drive them straight into the whirlpool, spinning down under the surface, breaking the timbers against the stone.
Seconds passed. Walcott was grasping and slipping. Marbury let his oar slide and lifted it out for a second, and Walcott regained control. The next stroke was almost even, the one after straight again.
Monk could feel the sweat on his body and the icy air cold on his face.
They were past the eddies and back to the shadow of the bridge. The water was still running swiftly; there were cross-vortices where the currents met. Now Monk saw the other boat ahead, Hooper at the starboard oar, Laker at the port. Bathurst sat hunched forward in the stern. He probably held the grappling iron in his hands, ready to board the barge when they drew level with it. They were traveling smoothly, picking up speed.
There was a bargee standing in the prow of the boat, leaning on his pole, and another in the stern, his body angled to make it obvious he was watching the approaching boat. He would know by now it was not a ferry because of the speed of approach.
“Fast as you can!” Monk said above the rush of the water and the creak of the rowlocks.
Walcott and Marbury obeyed silently.
The moon was rising, shedding more light on the choppy water. There were hardly any clouds in the sky, but the river before them was obscured by a huge bend.
Ahead, the barge was slowing as the five men prepared to defend their cargo. Monk saw one of them wield the long barge pole like an immense staff, sweeping it through the air. Anyone it struck would go into the water, possibly with his head split open. Truncheons and even cutlasses would be useless against it.
Hooper stood up, deliberately slowing his boat, letting the oars drag. Laker was standing, just out of reach of the barge pole. He looked easy on his feet, swaying with the movement. Bathurst was bent over, leaning forward.
