Rough Passage to London(42)

They might have given up at this point, but Morgan spotted a small gaff-rigged sailing boat tied up at the edge of the quay. They quickly pushed it off and jumped in. The oarlocks wiggled and creaked as Morgan and Hiram rowed toward the ship. It was near dusk now and the four o’clock winter sun, low on the horizon, was shining directly onto the ship they were trying to approach. When they were one hundred yards away, they raised the two small sails and tacked in close to the bow. The sun shone directly onto a sea serpent carved under the bowsprit. They let out the sail and began coasting toward the stern of the ship. That’s when they were noticed.

“’Eah down there. Ye river scum in the wherry. What are yer doin’ ’ere?”

A sailor with a raised pistol was looking down from high up above them.

“Just making deliveries,” Morgan quickly replied.

“This ’ere ship is not taking deliveries. Clear off ye river rats or I’ll fill ye full of lead.”

“’Oo’s thar?” another voice cried out.

“A couple of filching thieves that’s all. I chased ’em off.”

Any plan to board the ship or ask any more questions was quickly aborted. Hiram sheeted in the sails, Morgan looked back quickly at the stern where he could plainly see the name of the ship, the Charon. He felt a moment of sudden exhilaration, but then he heard a man calling out for the police. “Mudlarks!” the man cried. “Mudlarks! Police! Thar they are!” The man was running now and pointing in their direction. “They filched me boat!”

“Ely,” Hiram cried out. “We better pull out of here fast. If not, we’re going to end up like those scuffle hunters, being carted off to some English dungeon.”

In the fading light, they headed out through the small channel leading to the wide-bodied Thames. They could hear voices muttering and feet trampling on the quays as they were now clearly being pursued. The Marine Police kept a high-profile presence there on the West India Docks. Looking back through the night gloom, Morgan could see the faint lights from a small vessel. Hiram sheeted in the sails on the leeward side as Morgan hung out over the windward rail, his left hand on the tiller. He was steering by the feel of the wind, nudging the little boat to windward as much as it would tolerate. They could hear men shouting in the distance. He couldn’t tell who they were, but given the extreme darkness on the river and the cold temperatures, it was a good guess that they were not friendly. No working boat would be on this frigid river at this time of night. He guessed it was a police boat. Morgan bundled his dark, heavy peacoat around him to ward off the bone-numbing cold. Spray from the polluted Thames splattered on his face as the lee rail on the small boat tilted into the dark river water. They used the lights from some of the bulky Thames river barges to gauge where the shallows were on either side. His bare hands had lost any sense of feeling. It was no wonder, he thought, that the English referred to this time of the year as the “suicide month.”

They waited for the sound of gunshots, but none came. They listened for the noise of muffled oars or the shouts of men, but the river was silent and dark. It took them most of the night to zigzag their way up the Thames, battling against the current in their small sailboat. At one point when they were close to shore, they thought they heard their pursuers, but the putrid smell told them it was just some men shoveling sewage into the river. Their boat bumped into something heavy, jarring the hull. Morgan thought it might be a piece of driftwood.

“Hiram, what the devil is that?” he cried out in a whisper.

He reached down with his right hand to clear the debris away, and jumped back in horror. There was something long and pale floating alongside the boat.

“Lawd sakes alive! It’s a body, Hiram!”

The two of them looked over the side. There was just enough light to see the ghostly white, oval face of a man looking up at them. His round eyes were open and bulging like a dead fish, staring off into the darkness, his open hands clutching outward.

“Push it away, Ely!” Hiram cried out. “Push that tarnal floater away. This river is the Devil’s own.”

As the darkness of night receded, they hauled their stolen boat at the next convenient stop, union   Stairs, just off the London Docks. They pulled it ashore, turned it over on its side, and ran into an alleyway, hoping that no one had seen them. Morgan looked back briefly to see the oarsmen of a pinnace rowing frantically in their direction, the blades of their oars splashing in the water like a school of fish in a feeding frenzy. Without waiting any longer, he turned to follow Hiram as they both ran toward the Ratcliffe Highway on their way back to the ship and the safety of St. Katherine’s Docks.