William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

till I lorst me arm. But that were river pirates, an’ all! Comin’ back from the Indies, we were.” He leaned forward confidentially, his voice quieter and more urgent as memory flooded back. “Java way. Them China Seas is summink ’orrible in bad weather, an’ swarmin’ wi’ pirates.” He took a long swig of his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Don’ trust nobody. Keep a watch on deck all hours, an’ keep yer gun loaded an’ yer powder dry. But we made it all the way ’ome, down the Indian Ocean.” He made a circular movement with his finger. “ ’round the Cape o’ Good ’Ope and up the Atlantic past the Skeleton Coast o’ Africa, across Biscay . . . are yer followin’ me, like?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “An’ ’ome ter Spit’ead,” he said triumphantly. “Five-masted schooner, we was, wi’ a good set o’ guns fore an’ aft. We passed Gravesend, tacked up Fiddler’s Reach, past the marshes on either side of us, safe as ’ouses. Gallion’s Reach right up ter Woolwich.” He sniffed lugubriously. “Could smell ’ome it were that close. ’Eave to for the night off Bugsby’s Marsh ter make the Isle o’ Dogs an’ the Pool the next day. Damn it if we weren’t boarded in the middle watch by ’alf a dozen river pirates an’ cut loose.” He banged his fist on the table. “Tide took us onter the mud banks an’ by dawn there weren’t a bleedin’ thing left o’ the cargo they could shift, the sons o’ bitches. On the watch raised the alarm, poor sod! Cost ’im ’is life. An’ we all come up on deck wi’ pistols an’ cutlasses, an’ it were a right battle. But yer can’t fight ’em bastards an’ the wind an’ the tide at once.”
    Monk imagined it—the ship drifting, picking up speed with the current, the men fighting desperately on deck, trying to swing swords in the narrow spaces, seeking to shoot at moving, uncertain targets in the swaying lantern light, the violence, the fear, the pain.
    “What happened?” He had no need to pretend interest.
    “We killed three of ’em,” the man replied with satisfaction, licking his lips after the last mouthful of the pork pie. “Lost two o’ us, though. Wounded two more o’ them pretty bad, an’ put ’em over the side. They drowned.”
    “Then what?”
    “ ’Alf a dozen more of ’em, weren’t there!” he said bitterly. “I ’ad me arm gashed so bad I bled like a stuck pig. Got it all stitched up like, but went wi’ the gangrene. Took it off, they did. ’Ad ter, ter save me bleedin’ life!” He said it wryly, as if it were a long time ago and hardly mattered anymore, but Monk saw the pain in his eyes, and the memory of what he had been. He could feel not the physical agony of the knife, but the mental scream as he became less than whole, the mutilation that tore through him still.
    Monk did not know how to respond. Should he acknowledge the pain he had seen, and attempt to convey some understanding of it, or was it better to behave as if he had not noticed?
    “Are there still pirates on the river, even today?” he asked. It was an evasion, but it was the best he could do.
    “Some,” the man answered, the brilliance of hurt fading from his eyes. “The ogglers is pretty good, but even they can’t do it all.”
    “Are there pirates this far up the river?”
    “Prob’ly not. Up by Lime’ouse an’ that way it’s opium eaters an’ them kinds o’ things. But yer never know. There’s other folks ’as ’ad a few run-ins wif ’em, ’part from me.”
    “Louvain?” The moment Monk had said it, he wondered if it were wise.
    The man’s face lit up with pleasure. “Clem Louvain? Yer damn right! ’e cut them up summink beautiful, ’e did! Yer never seen a better man wi’ a cutlass than Clem! They rued the day they messed wi’ ’im!” He sniffed cheerfully. “Mind, that’s a few year ago now, but it don’t make no diff’rence. Summink like that yer don’ forget. They don’ mess wif ’im still, an’ all!”
    Monk measured his words carefully. “I’m surprised they don’t want revenge,” he said with a deliberate lift of curiosity.
    The man grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Come up from ’ell ter ask for it, yer reckon?”
    “Dead?” Monk was surprised.
    “ ’Course, dead!” the man said contemptuously. “Two killed right there on the deck o’ the
Mary Walsh
an’ two ’anged up Execution Dock. I seed it meself. Went ter watch, I did. Rare sight,