When the brute had finally collapsed, Whistler clinging fast to him like a monstrous tick at his neck, she staggered to her feet, holding her shattered foreleg aloft, her belly bleeding heavily onto the sand and sawdust of the ring. The riotous shouting and whistling swelled, filling the space like a tidal rush, and Crouch acknowledged the approbations and cheers from Buckingham’s corner.
Whistler’s handler cautiously slipped the lead around her head and quickly examined her wounds. Looking up, he shook his head, and Crouch exhaled resignedly.
He heard Brudloe’s voice at his ear. “You can buy a dozen prized bitches now with your winnings.”
Crouch gave the signal to the handler to dispatch her, thinking, were he to have a hundred more dogs, none would be as sporting as Whistler; and, truth be known, he had grown to love the dog and would have retired her soon to breed. To him, it did not bode well that she should die before his taking on a dangerous new venture.
He gathered his earnings into a pouch at his belt and left the ring with Brudloe, Cornwall lumbering after them like a baker’s kiln with legs. They walked out of the gaming house, behind the Royal Exchange, and the three of them stood taking in the damp, cold air, the street a well of silence after the din of the baiting pit. Crouch had a mind to go to a private room at an inn at Aldgate within a few minutes’ walking of Cornhill Road, but Brudloe beckoned him in another direction, saying, “We need quiet; too many eyes and ears. I know a house that will serve.”
He led Crouch south on St. Botolph’s towards the wharves next to London Bridge, his scarred and closely shaven head turning this way and that for signs of alley cutthroats, Cornwall close behind them with his hand on the hilt of a large dagger. At the head of Lyon’s Key, a form slipped out of the shadows, wrapped in a heavy cloak, and approached them on the pier. Crouch tensed, looking for Cornwall to move defensively, but Brudloe placed a hand on his arm, saying, “Be at ease, Samuel. This here is our new partner.”
The hooded figure nodded and Crouch took his hand away from the pistol hidden under his greatcoat. In a loud whisper Brudloe said to Crouch, “He’s
They followed Brudloe into a shoddily built house perched on the docks, newly built since the fire. The door was opened by an old bawd who signaled them in, and at a large table set with food and drink sat Baker, a placid, cadaver-faced man known widely as an artist in the application of torture. It was said he could make the pope give up the names of his own bastards. For a moment, Crouch paused at the door. He found Baker at all times abhorrent, but of late, it seemed, where there was Brudloe, there, too, was Baker.
Shoving aside a large trencher of meat, Crouch pulled from his coat pockets maps and documents that he spread on the table. The others moved to the opposite side of the table to be seated, and Crouch regarded them silently. Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, he thought, each with his own talent for destruction. His eyes returned to the youngest man’s face, studying the refined features, certain he had seen him before. He was dressed expensively, much too richly to be a deserter from the army or a common street bravo.
Crouch pulled off his wig, scratching at the thinning halo of rust-colored hair, and pointed to the pile of papers. “Here are the Letters of Transport, signed by the office of Sir Williamson himself. The voyage to New England will take at least three weeks, maybe four. The ship is
Brudloe sniggered. “The only discomfort for us will be the lack of women. Except for Baker, here, who may make time with the cabin boy.”
Baker smiled benignly, scratching casually at his brow.
Crouch picked up a map out of the pile and turned it around for the four men to better see. He jabbed at the point of entry. “This is Boston Harbor. The captain will see us to a reliable boardinghouse. We will gather food and water and, as soon as we are able, leave Boston for Salem.” His finger traced inland on the map. “We can walk it in a day. In Salem we’ll contact a man named Rogers. Goodman Rogers.”
“Oh, Christ. A Puritan,” Brudloe muttered.
“They’re all Puritans,” Baker said under his breath, fingering through the documents.
Thornton sighed impatiently, saying, “Tell us about this man Morgan.”
Crouch reached for a tankard and filled it with ale from a pitcher. He had it now; he had seen Thornton not once, but several times in the inn at Aldgate. The young rake had watched him more closely than was usual for a fellow reveler. On those occasions Crouch had thought Thornton, with his mincing gestures and embroidered coat, merely a wastrel with unnatural appetites. But now he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been scrutinized for other reasons. His eyes met Thornton’s, and the man’s lips curled in a knowing way. Crouch’s flesh at the hairline glazed with sweat.
“He was a soldier,” Crouch began.
“Twenty years ago.” Thornton sneered. “He’s an old man now.”
Brudloe poured himself more ale, adding, “And bleeds through the navel like any other man.”
Baker smiled and offered, “One can only hope.”
“He’s a giant.” Cornwall’s voice suddenly erupted into the room. It made a cavernous, almost mournful rumbling, and there was silence afterwards as the four men looked at him in surprise, but nothing more was said. He only hoisted from the platter the largest joint of meat and began to eat.
Crouch placed his hands flat against the table and leaned closer to Brudloe. “Our job is to bring Morgan back alive. That’s what the king wants. Not dead. Alive. He wants the pleasure of killing him himself, and to do it legal, which means publicly sanctioned, he needs a statement given in front of a bonded witness.” He nodded to Baker, who inclined his head graciously in turn, as though at a compliment.
“We’ll do our best,” Brudloe said and held out his hand. “And now, about the pay.”
Crouch reached into another pocket and pulled out a leather sack heavy with coins. “There’s fifty pounds here. Another fifty upon completion… if Morgan is transported alive. That’s twenty pounds total each for the five of us when he is brought back to London.”
Brudloe exhaled through his teeth and reached for the coins, but another, larger hand was quicker. Cornwall had pushed up from the table, his fist closing over the sack. He tucked it away inside the tentlike folds of his greatcoat and moved slowly to the other side of the table, coming to stand behind Crouch.
“Any last words, Sam?” Brudloe asked, all emotion evaporated from his face. He raised his chin and stared at Crouch in stony silence.
Crouch stiffened, suddenly wary, and looked at each man in turn. He could feel Cornwall behind him, his breath at the back of his head. It came to him then that he was the only one in the room whose first name had been freely used. He knew the others solely by their surnames: Brudloe, Baker, Cornwall, and now Thornton.
His hand crept towards the pistol at his waist and he said, “Only that you’ll not get far without me. I’m telling you, so help me God, the wilderness there will make these alleys look like a maiden’s romp.”
A crushing blow at the back of his head knocked Crouch off the chair, blinding him momentarily. He could feel Cornwall grabbing at the top of his breeches, pulling away the pistol.
Crouch lay on the floor, a searing pain at his temple, understanding fully the unyielding conditions of the new England; the unbearable harshness of the seasons, the strange, brutal obstinacy and unnatural pride of its inhabitants, the daily overarching fear of being ambushed by natives. He looked at Thornton’s fine clothes and snorted bitterly through his nose.
Brudloe’s voice came to him in blanketed waves. “You may well laugh now, Sam, but it’s never wise to be buggered by Spaniards.”
Crouch could see the wavering shapes of Baker’s shoes coming to stand at eye level, and a large leather bag being dropped next to his head.
“But worse,” Brudloe concluded, “is taking Blood’s money while you’re doin’ it. I wonder what all you’ve passed along?”
Baker knelt down next to Crouch and began removing from the bag the instruments of his trade: gleaming prongs, probes, and small boxes studded with nails. He cocked his head at him and asked, almost sympathetically, “Shall we begin?”
