“Crawl around there and see if there’s another hasp,” I directed him.
“Why don’t you go yourself, instead o’ orderin’ me around?”
I tend to forget just how sensitive Vincent is to anyone except French instructing him to do something. One of these days he and I would have to have a chat about that. After all, I was a full-fledged agent now. Hadn’t the prime minister himself given me carte blanche to run the anarchist operation as I saw fit? Vincent was just being bloody-minded. It’s a state I recognize easily, being rather bloody-minded myself.
“It would be best if you went, Vincent,” said French smoothly. “You’re more skilled at creeping about without being seen.”
Naturally the little sod went off without a word of protest, having received a pat on the head from his hero. I was extremely annoyed but being the stalwart type said nothing while Vincent eased around the coaming surrounding the hatch and went to work on the second lock. He moved slowly, lifting his head to be sure that the sailors on deck were still occupied with their conversation, but finally I heard a stealthy rasp as the bolt was withdrawn and Vincent wriggled back around the hatch to join us.
The three of us arranged ourselves as best we could in the space we had and on French’s whispered count of three we heaved on the cover. It was heavy as lead but with both its hasps loose, we were able to lift it several inches. One of us would be able to squeeze through, but what of the other two?
“One moment,” said French. We eased down the cover and he disappeared into the darkness, returning a moment later with what appeared to be a large needle with a sharp point on one end and an eye at the other, through which a lanyard dangled.
“Marlinspike,” he whispered. “We’ll wedge it into the opening and crawl through.”
I looked dubiously at the thing. “It doesn’t look strong enough. Will it hold?”
“It’s made of iron. I reckon it will hold long enough for us to get inside.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking, and I was cogitating about the very same thing. “How the devil do we get out?”
“We’ll worry about that later.”
Just like a man
—
only concerned with ingress, never with egress. Had there been any way of actually exiting stage right at this point without blowing the gaff, I’d have done so. But there wasn’t, and thus I joined my companions in heaving up the hatch cover once more. French groaned and cursed and shoved his shoulder under the hatch to free one hand, which he used to jam the marlinspike between the deck and the cover. We let go gingerly and waited for the confounded hatch to slam shut, but the marlinspike held.
“It’ll be tricky work, sliding through the opening without dislodging that thing,” I observed.
French merely grunted. “You first, Vincent. Then India goes and I’ll come last.”
Vincent, being as thin as your average wharf cat, slid through the opening like melted butter. I’d expected a long drop, but the hold was full and I heard a thump quite near the opening as he came to rest on the cargo. I stuck my head through the hatch. Risky that, but I wanted to know what I was getting into.
“How far is the drop? What’s down there?”
“A few feet. I’m sittin’ on some crates. Don’t know wot’s in ’em. Slide in on your belly, feet first, and you’ll be alright.”
“Watch out below,” I whispered, and squirmed through the opening. Dealing with breasts proved a bit awkward, but by the time I’d managed to get them over the threshold, so to speak, the toes of my boots hit wood and I eased down onto a large container. There wasn’t enough space to stand upright, so I stooped down and duckwalked out of French’s way.
He dropped gracefully into the hold and then we all crouched together and pushed up the hatch so that he could extract the marlinspike.
With that task accomplished, I contemplated the next. The air was fetid, ripe with the smell of bilge water. It was dark as pitch in the hold.
“How the hell are we supposed to see down here?”
“I’m surprised you hadn’t thought of that before now,” French said. The poncy bastard was gloating. I could tell by the sound of his voice.
“Oh, do trot out your candle or whatever you’ve got in that pack and stop sounding so pleased with yourself.” The fact that French had remembered the necessity of light and I had not was irritating. I blame the marchioness. I doubt that French would have been as prepared if he’d had the old crone underfoot and wreaking havoc. Nevertheless, I was glad that he’d had the foresight to bring along a pack. I wondered what else he had inside there.
I heard the scrape of a match, and had to close my eyes for a moment against the sulphurous glare. When I opened them again, French had lit the stub of a candle and was nursing the flame, cupping his hands around it to ward off draughts. When he was satisfied that the wick was burning brightly, he produced two more candles from his pockets and handed one to Vincent and one to me. Then he lit them for us. It was rather solemn and vaguely religious, lighting those candles while the shadows reared dark and foreboding around us.
“You look like a parson,” I cracked.
He gave me a roguish grin that nearly made my candle melt. “Do you like parsons?”
“You two can do that another time,” Vincent said crisply. “Let’s hotfoot it through this ruddy place and get the ’ell out of ’ere.”
“What a killjoy you are, Vincent,” I said. “Lead on.”
French stuck the marlinspike in his belt and left his pack on top of the crates below the hatchway. “India, come with me. Vincent, you go to the other side. Remember, we’re looking for crates stamped either ‘
Bradley Tool Company’
or ‘
South Indian Railway Company
.’ Or the crates might be labeled ‘tools.’”
“Perhaps I should go with Vincent,” I suggested. Had French forgotten that Vincent could not read?
He had not. “I wrote down the information and gave it to the lad earlier. He’ll recognize the words if he sees them.”
Vincent had not lingered to hear this conversation. He had taken off like a flash to the other side of the ship, disappearing over the edge of the crates with the agility of a monkey.
The cargo had been packed solidly to fill the hold. The only space in which to move about was on either side of the stacks of boxes, chests and crates, where the curved sides of the ship had left a bit of room to maneuver. French and I crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the piled cargo.
“There are some cracks between the crates you can use as footholds,” said French, and proceeded to prove his theory by dangling his feet over the edge and searching with his foot until he had found a space to wedge his toe. He made light work of it, and was soon at the bottom, standing on the deck that separated the hold from the bilge. My descent was slightly less nimble, but I made it to the deck with only a scraped elbow and one small tear in my trousers.
The space was narrow and we had to lean against the hull and shuffle along slowly. French rose on his toes to read the labels on the crates near the top of the hold, while I strained my eyes to decipher the scrawled marks on the crates near the bottom.
“Some of the tags must be facing the other way,” I said. “I can’t tell what’s in those boxes.”
“We can only do what’s possible, and hope that we find what we’re looking for.”
On that cheery note I bent over and resumed my efforts, creeping down the side of the hull. It was damned uncomfortable down there and about as exciting as sitting through the Sunday sermon twice. We made slow progress, as the stevedores had packed the hold tight. My back began to ache and my thoughts drifted to my comfortable bed back at Lotus House, until I remembered that the marchioness was the current occupant of that berth, which made me curse under my breath.
We’d been at it for a good hour, crawling along like caterpillars in the confines of the cramped space, when Vincent gave a low whistle and French and I stopped and listened.
“Oi, I fink I found somethin’.”
In an instant French was scaling the mountain of crates that towered over us, and I was right on his heels. We gained the top and hunched down to avoid the timbers over our heads.
“Whistle again, Vincent,” French commanded, and we followed the sound of the muted tone. French lay down on his stomach and peered over the edge of the crates. I joined him there and saw Vincent below us, the glow of his candle nearly swallowed by the looming shadows.
“There’s a bit o’ paper pasted on this one,” he said, holding the candle up to the side of a crate. “‘Bradley Tool Company’ it says.”
“Why don’t you stay here, India. It’s too narrow down there for us all, and I need room to work.”
I didn’t mind refraining from more acrobatic feats tonight and I was quite willing for French to scramble down alone to join Vincent. I lay on my stomach to watch.
“Hold my candle,” French told Vincent, and took the marlinspike from his belt. French inserted it into a space between the planks of the crate. I saw his shoulders hunch as he applied pressure and the plank groaned. He leaned into the spike, using it as a lever to force the board. The wood resisted and French removed the marlinspike and shoved it into a different position, at the corner of the crate. I heard the rasping of nails as they were pulled clear and suddenly French and Vincent had a plank in their hands, which they twisted persistently until one end came away from the crate. In the candlelight, I saw a few wisps of straw protruding from the opening.
“Careful with those candles,” I whispered. French and Vincent spared a moment from their labours to inform me that they were not mentally defective and were well aware of the dangers of fire.
French thrust his arms through the opening and pulled out double handfuls of straw, dropping them at his feet. He inserted his arms again and this time I knew he’d encountered something. I heard metal grind against metal. French was fishing about, trying to get a grip on the object he’d found. He leaned back against the bulkhead and tugged gently, working his arms back and forth.
A slender cylinder of wood and steel popped out and French nursed the rest of the article out of the crate with all the care of a midwife delivering her first babe. I looked down at the rifle cradled in French’s arms.
“Blimey,” said Vincent. “That ain’t a shovel.”
French looked grim. “Indeed not. It’s a .577 Martini-Henry rifle, capable of firing ten rounds per minute at a velocity of nine hundred feet per second.”
“Wot a peashooter.”
“It’s lethal in the right hands, and those hands belong to the army. These are military-issue weapons.”
I squirmed forward for a better look. “Mayhew worked for the quartermaster general’s office.”
“I had made the connection,” said French.
“So somebody stole these ’ere rifles from the army and they’re shippin’ ’em to somebody in India?”
“So it appears.”
“Wot do we do now?”
As so often happens in life, that decision was made for us. One moment we were gazing down at one of the British Empire’s most effective pieces of armament, and the next we were scuttling like rats for a hole. Someone had opened the door to the cargo hold and several men were now standing inside, carrying bull’s-eye lanterns and cursing a blue streak while they searched for the source of the sounds of flight.
I blew out my candle to avoid being seen, and scampered for the hatch, though my progress was impeded by the fact that I had to bend over to avoid smashing my head into the timbers overhead, and the fact that it was too damned dark to see anything. I heard French and Vincent swarming up the side of the cargo and the sounds of their footsteps trailing after me. I reached the hatch and prayed that my compatriots would be there soon as there was nothing I could do until they arrived. They seemed to take a confoundedly long time, but then French pounded to a halt beside me, gulping air like a blown horse, with Vincent right behind him. We put our hands against the hatch cover.
“Push now,” said French, but we needed no such instruction. We shoved with all our might. The hatch moved a fraction, but didn’t open.
“Hell and damnation,” French panted. “Someone put the bolts back in the hasps.”
Our pursuers had climbed to the top of the crates and were advancing on us. It was difficult to tell how many there were, as their lanterns cast a flood of light before them, obscuring them and illuminating us like actors on a stage. I took a breath and tried to steady my nerves. This might be awkward. We’d no doubt be mistaken as thieves and our disreputable attire wouldn’t help matters, but I felt sure we could talk our way out of this situation. If nothing else, we could pull out our trump card, old Dizzy himself, and see how long it took these chaps to tug their forelocks and apologize for inconveniencing us. So I didn’t fret myself, instead using the time it took them to close on us to prepare a speech of sorts. It’s always best to get on the front foot right away, and foreclose any offense by the other party.
I must admit to feeling slightly intimidated by the silent advance of the men with the lanterns. There was something diabolical in their slow, deliberate progression toward us over the boxes and chests. The lights moved forward inexorably, like the torches of some demonic clan seeking a sacrificial victim. Boots thumped hollowly on the wooden crates, and I could hear the men breathing heavily from their climb. If I’d caught someone pilfering things from Lotus House, I’d have shouted loud enough to wake the dead. These chaps, whoever they were, held their tongues. And that is when I pulled the Bulldog from my pocket.
