William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

everywhere, and hunt down the men as if they were murderers on the loose? Would that catch them? Or drive them so far underground they would never be found? And how many people would they infect in the meantime?
    His thoughts drifted, and then suddenly he was awake again. He heard the scrape of rats’ feet and felt his flesh cringe. Someone in the next room was coughing over and over, a raw, hacking sound. They were looking for someone ill! That was how plague started, wasn’t it, in the chest, with something like pneumonia? He was too cold to move, but he should go and see if that was one of the crew, or worse than that, someone already infected by them.
    He lay shivering, muscles locked, body curled up, until a long spasm of coughing next door made him force himself to roll over and stand up slowly. He picked his way to the door through the forms of sleeping men and went out into the narrow passage. It was faintly lit by one candle on a shelf, so anyone needing to relieve himself would not get lost or fall over and waken everyone else.
    He reached the door of the next room and turned the handle very slowly and pushed. It swung wide with a faint creak. It took him a moment to accustom his eyes to the deeper gloom, then he moved very quietly, stepping over and around the sleeping bodies until he came to the one turning restlessly, hunching his shoulders over, his breath labored.
    Monk bent over and touched him. The next instant the man lashed out, sending Monk flying backwards, landing hard and awkwardly on a sleeping man behind him, who let out a yell of fury. It turned into a melee of thrashing arms and legs, and cries of “Thief!”
    Monk tried to extricate himself, but he was one against half a dozen. He was generally getting the worst of it, failing to explain his motives, when a candle appeared in the doorway and he saw Durban’s face with an expression of exasperation and amusement. The next moment the candle was set on a chair and Durban plowed into the battle with gusto. He worked his way closer to where Monk was struggling to avoid being knocked senseless without actually doing the same to anyone else.
    Finally, Monk leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath while the original man with the cough sat doubled over on the floor breathing with difficulty. Three other men glared at Durban, who was grinning hugely.
    “I only wanted to know”—Monk gasped—“if any of you are off the
Maude Idris
.”
    “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