Shifting Tide

“Wot d’yer come creeping in ’ere for like a bleedin’ thief, then?” one of the men demanded.

“I wasn’t going to waken anyone!” Monk said, thinking reasonably.

He was greeted by hoots and jeers.

“Well, have yer?” he shouted.

“Never ’eard of it,” another replied.

“Course yer ’ave, yer fool!” the man next to him retorted. “One o’ Clem Louvain’s ships. Come back from Africa. In’t put ashore yet.”

“Paid three men off at Gravesend,” Durban told him.

“In’t seen none of ’em.” The man shook his head.

“Stope, Carter, and Briggs,” Monk supplied.

“Stope? Know Cap’n Stope, but I in’t seed ’im in more’n a year. Now can I go back ter sleep again, an’ yer get to ’ell out of ’ere?”

Monk glanced at the rest of the men, but there was nothing in the faces of any of them to indicate guilt, recognition, or anything beyond weariness and wretchedness. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He followed Durban out, picking up the candle as he went. By some miracle it was still burning.

He put it back on the shelf in the passage as he passed it. He was beginning to be aware of several bruises, and the fact that he was no longer cold. Durban was laughing to himself. He glanced at Monk as they reached the door of the room they had come from, and in the wavering light from the flame his eyes were bright. His expression was as eloquent as a score of words.

In the morning Monk woke stiff and his body ached in every muscle. No doubt if he looked he would have blackening bruises all over. He glanced across at Durban and saw him still smiling. He shrugged, and winced. The whole episode was absurd, and they had learned nothing, but he still felt a warmth inside him that he had not had before.

Breakfast was porridge and bread. Only hunger could have driven him to eat it. But with daylight they saw their companions in the room more clearly. One was a heavyset young man with a sullen face; the other was elderly, his skin pockmarked. He was a great talker and eager to tell anyone about his adventures. He had been around Cape Horn and dined out more than a few times on his memories of the storms off that notorious coast, the wild weather, waves like moving mountains, winds that tore the breath from a man’s lungs, coasts like nightmares drawn from the landscapes of the moon. He had rounded Tierra del Fuego in the teeth of a gale, and that was where a loose halyard had shattered his arm. The ship’s surgeon had cauterized the stump, sawing the bone with no more anesthetic than half a bottle of rum and a leather gag to bite on.

Monk watched the man’s face, and then Durban’s as he listened. He saw many emotions: respect for courage; awe at the splendor and violence of the sea; admiration for the audacity of men who built boats of wood and set out to sail. It seemed an impossible hubris; although Durban would probably not be familiar with the word, he certainly understood the concept of mortals daring and defying the gods to snatch glory from the hands of heaven. Monk saw also a tenderness and willing patience that he guessed some deep meaning lay behind.

When they left and were back in the street again in a slightly milder morning, he asked the question that had taken shape in his mind.

“Was your father at sea?”

Durban looked at him with surprise, then something like pleasure. “That clear, is it?”

Monk smiled back. “Just a guess.”

Durban kept his eyes ahead now, avoiding Monk’s gaze, which had proved too keen. “Lost in the Irish Sea in ’35. I can still remember the day they brought us the news.” His voice was quiet, but there was a gentleness and a pain in it he could not disguise. “I suppose families of seamen always half expect it, but when you grow used to the fear without the reality, it takes you longer to believe that this time it isn’t going to be just a scare. It’s here to stay, day in, day out.” He jammed his hands farther into his pockets and walked in silence. He expected Monk to understand without words and details.

They went to more doss-houses, more street corner peddlers, more brothels, taverns, and pawnbrokers. No one could help. One even knew the family of the cabin boy, and for an hour and a half hope boiled up that they had achieved one breakthrough at last.

But he was not there, nor had his father heard of him since his ship left for Africa nearly six months ago. They were confused and then worried when Durban said that the Maude Idris had docked and paid off.

“Don’ worry yerself, Ma,” his elder brother said gently. “ ’E’s a growed lad. ’E’ll be ’avin’ ’isself a good time. ’E’ll come ’ome when ’e’s ready. ’E’ll ’ave suffink special for yer from Africa, I’ll be bound.”

They left somberly, with a growing weight of urgency and sadness on them, and moved on southwards along the river.

“Trafalgar,” Durban said with a ham sandwich and a pint of ale in his hands. “My grandfather fought there. Not on the Victory, but he remembers Nelson.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “I wanted to go to sea then.”

Monk waited. It would be indelicate to ask why he had not. The reason might hold any kind of pain. He would speak of it if he wanted to.

“Then my brothers died of scarlet fever,” Durban said simply. “So I stayed at home.” He straightened up and walked back towards the street and the next place to ask.

Monk followed. He said nothing. Durban did not want sympathy, or even comment; he was simply revealing something of himself. It was an act of trust.

They worked the rest of the day, occasionally separately, mostly together, because this was not an area where a man should have no one guarding his back. They did get involved in a brief fight, and Monk was startled at how hard he struck, how instinctively he looked for the crippling blow.