Watery Grave Page 19

  But at that Tom jumped to his feet, and I followed. Bunkins rose a bit reluctantly.

  “No,” said Tom to them, “we must be off and continue our search. If you see Tobias, tell him I seek him, will you?”

  “Be sure of it, lad.”

  “And remember what I told you,” said Old Isaac through great billows of smoke.” Look for the doxies, and you’ll likely find Tobias Trindle.”

  “Try the Ship Tavern downriver. There they got whores aplenty and rooms above. That’s where he spent his first night ashore.”

  As we departed with goodbyes and thanks, I could not but wonder why they had not told us that earlier.

  While Tom was all for getting on direct to the Ship Tavern, I, knowing that a proper search should be conducted in orderly fashion, insisted we stop at the places between and search through them, too. Bunkins had no opinion in the matter; he simply wanted more beer, it being a hot day and the air most heavy.

  We must have stopped at six or seven dives along the way. In some there were women, and in some there were not. Yet having given in to my judgment, Tom was most thorough. He circulated through these dark dens and found other seamen from the Achrnture. All had seen Trindle at some time or other since coming ashore; none knew his present whereabouts. In the two drinking places that were without the most rudimentary comforts of table and chair, as I have previously described, Tom turned over those stretched out upon the floor —but without purpose, for even though he found two of the crew in one such place, they were in no condition to tell him anything. Bunkins, on the other hand, took advantage of these stops along the way to feed his apparently unquenchable thirst. He would bang upon the bar and call for beer as Tom moved through the room. Nor would he leave a tankard unfinished, for he prided himself on his ability to quaff one off in two or three great gulps.

  By the time we reached the Ship Tavern Jimmie Bunkins was in a rather sorry condition. We had stopped thrice along the way so that he might relieve himself against a wall. But with our goal in sight, he begged our help that he might vomit into the river and give some help to his bursting belly. There was an empty wharf nearby. We supported him between us over to the edge and held him by his belt as he leaned over and let gush the brovsnish-yellow contents of his stomach in great repetitive heaves until there was no more. We pulled him back up and Tom gave him his handkerchief. Bunkins wiped the sweat from his face and the vomit from his mouth; then he spat twice into the river.

  “That should help,” he said at last.

  “Why did you drink so much, Jimmie B.?” asked Tom.

  “Don’t know,” said he.” Start, can’t stop.”

  He stood, panting a bit, swaying, looking dizzy in the head.

  “Listen, chums, you’d best go on without me. The cove, he won’t like it if I’m late. But I should tell you, there’s more such as we been in beyond the Tower. They start at St. Catherine’s Stairs, but be careful, for that’s the worst part. Keep your daddies on your barking irons there.”

  “I know St. Catherine’s Stairs,” said I.

  “Good,” said he.” You’re a right pair of rum chums. But keep your dubber mum about this, would you? The cove wouldn’t like it, and I’m tryin’ hard to please him. Uh … Tom?”

  “Yes, Jimmie B.?”

  “I wonder, could I beg a bob for the hackney. I drank up my return.”

  Tom quickly thrust a coin into his hand.

  “I’d best shove my trunk. Goodbye to both of yez.”

  And shove his trunk he did, taking each step most purposefully up Fresh Wharf in the direction of London Bridge. He would find a hackney likely enough there. Still and all, his condition troubled me.

  “Will he be all right, Tom?”

  “He’ll be fme. He’ll throw some water on his face, dab some cologne smell on to take away the stink of his puke, and nobody will know.”

  “He slurred his words a bit.”

  “Then he should keep silent.”

  “As you say then.”

  Tom was, after all, something of a man of the world.

  “Well, ” said he, “are you for the Ship Tavern?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Then let us find Tobias!”

  And together we set off across the empty wharf toward the Ship Tavern, walking in step at a swift pace, like the two boldest lads in all London. We were fair upon it when, of a sudden, the door of the place flew open and five or six men came running out, all of them in jumbled seaman’s dress. Great excitement there was. We stopped and stared. For a moment they seemed to be running right at us —but no, they veered off toward the river in the direction of the bridge.

  “Jeremy,” said Tom, “they’re my mates from the Adventure.” And then he hailed the last of them: “Hi, Harry! What is it? Where are you off to?”

  Harry did not answer. He simply turned and beckoned for us to follow. Tom and I looked at each other, and without a word between us, we started out at a run in pursuit of them. We were close, near catching them up, when they suddenly disappeared down a flight of steps to the riverbank. By the time we had descended it, we found them grouping around a bumboat pulled up onto the bank. The boatman stood by, talking earnestly to one of the crew, while the rest stared in dumb amazement at the boat’s contents. The body of a man lay in the bow, water-soaked, hair plastered to his face, a drowning victim, no doubt.

  “No, ” the boatman was explaining with obvious irritation, “I did not pull him out of the water. He weren’t afloat, anyhow. He’d got stuck at water level on one of the bridge supports. No telling how long he was there, and no telling how many spied him there before me. But it was me rowed out and pulled him into the boat. I done my good deed, and that’s all I’m going to do. You know him, you take him.”

  “He drowned, did he?”

  “Must have.”

  “Any marks on him?”

  “Indeed there’s marks on him. You bump up against London Bridge for hours and hours, you’d have some marks on you too.”

  “But wounds, any such like?”

  Tom pulled away from me, and drawn by more than curiosity, he pushed forward through his mates and was now staring down at the body in the boat.

  “If you want to know about wounds,” said the boatman, “then you must pull his clothes off and look for yourself.”

  Then I pushed up next to Tom and saw what he saw. Though the face of the corpus in the boat was somewhat bloated and marked, it was nevertheless recognizable as that of Lieutenant Grimsby of the H.M.S. Adventure.

  EIGHT

  In which Sir John fails

  to read the Riot Act

  to the crew

  Though there was much interest in the body of Lieutenant Grimsby by the crew members present there on the Thames bank, and much speculation as to the cause of death, none seemed to know quite what to do next. One suggested he be carried to the Navy Board and dumped on the doorstep of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Redmond. Another thought the generous thing might be to hold a wake for him at the Ship Tavern.

  The boatman showed his indifference to the matter by hauling out the dead officer from the bow and bumping him down in the river mud. He then pushed his boat into the water, jumped in and settled himself behind the oars. When last seen, he was out in the channel, dragging oars left and right, steering expertly on his way to his next landing.

  “P’rhaps if we just left him here someone would be by and know just what should be done.”

  There were a few grunts of assent to that suggestion. Feet shuffled. It was clear that they, too, meant to be quit of the corpus.

  “You cannot do that,” said Tom most severely.” Leave him here in the sun, and he will bloat and stink something horrible in an hour or two. It ain’t the decent thing to do.”

  “Tom’s right, ” said one, nodding sagaciously.

  “Aye, ‘tis so.”

  I cleared my throat and pushed my voice down to its deepest.

  “If you will pardon me, gentlemen, ” said I, �
��there is but one way to treat this matter.”

  I was eyed suspiciously by all but Tom.

  “Who’reyou to tell us, lad?”

  “I am assistant to Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  “Aye! So he is, so he is. Remember, Bert? The boy with the blind man who made a fool of the captain.”

  “Now I recalls. He’s the one knocked Mr. Boone down the stairs, ain’t he?”

  “You’re awright with me, lad!”

  “Aye, tell us what then. We’ll hear you out.”

  I declared that he should be taken to the Raker, who was the keeper of all bodies found in curious circumstances such as these. I would then notify Sir John, who would then learn how Mr. Grimsby died and when and all sorts of other things a competent Doctor of Physick could tell him. (Alas, in truth, he knew only one such. Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, who was far away in the Tibbie Valley, wooing a reluctant widow.) I made every effort, in short, to create the impression that there was a proper manner in which to handle inconvenient matters such as this, and of course they would wish to do it properly.

  They looked at one another and scratched their heads.

  “How far is it? ” asked one at last.

  “Not far,” said I, “just beyond London Bridge some.”

  “Well… I suppose we could do that. They’s enough of us. We could share him out between us, two b two.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement — but then came an objection:

  “I don’t know, sounds like mighty dry work on a hot day like this.”

  “By Gawd, you’re right, Har Why don’t we take a couple of bottles with us? What say? Gin or rum?”

  “One of each!”

  They made a collection. I myself gave a few pence in the spirit of fellowship. Tom donated, as well. One of their number was delegated to do the buying, and I urged Tom to go along to look for Tobias Trindle within the Ship Tavern.

  “Had he been inside, he would be out here with us now,” Tom objected.

  “Well …” I hesitated. What he said was perfectly reasonable, of course.

  “Let me ask,” said Tom to me. And to them: “Hi, mates, is that old goat Tobias about? Was he in the tavern?”

  “No, he ain’t been there for days. He was in the Gull and Anchor a day past, howsomever. Saw him with Isaac and Bristol Beatty.”

  “An old goat he surely is, Tom. Remember how he led us all off to that wog whorehouse in Bombay?”

  “All but me,” said Tom.

  “And wise you was to stay on board. How many of us was it got the pox? Three?”

  “No, more —five. You’re forgettin’ Cherrupin’ Sam and Ned Tobert.”

  “Aw, but they got kilt in the fight with the grabs, so we can’t be sure about them.”

  “Well, they thought they had it. Damn, that was a fight, weren’t it — with the grabs? Bastards just kep’ swarmin’ aboard.”

  Thus they passed the time in reminiscence until their messenger returned with the bottles for the journey to the Raker’s. The bearer had generously supplied another from his own pocket. Since gin was what he preferred, gin was what he bought. He pulled the cork and passed the bottle around. I declined my chance at it, but Tom took a swig and handed it on.

  “Well,” said one —call him the leader, for he was the first to fall in with my plan, “I s’pose we’d best get on with it. Harry, you grab t’other end.”

  Harry did as his mate had bade, and off we went, up the stairs and across, and then up a bit of a hill along Fresh Wharf. Though there was no ship moored, there were yet a few men about at the storehouse door. They looked at us rather queer when they saw Mr. Grimsby swinging free between his porters. The group at the door may have thought him an officer overcome by drink, until one leaned over for a closer look as the corpus passed and gave a solemn shake of his head to his fellows. Not a word was heard from them in comment, however.

  “Damn all, they do get heavy when they’re dead, don’t they? ” said Harry. He it was who led the way, supporting the lieutenant’s feet.

  “He ain’t half so heavy where you are as where I am,” said his partner. And it was true enough, for proceeding uphill as they were and supporting the weight of the trunk, he bore the greater weight.

  The rest of us were grouped before and behind. Tom and I led the strange funeral procession, looking back frequently to see just how the others were getting on.

  “You know where this place is —the Raker’s? What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s not a name,” said I.” It’s a … a description. He rakes in the dead, you might say.” I hesitated, then plunged on: “Butyes, I’ve been there before —not often, but I can find it. It’s not the sort of place you’d visit by choice.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  We reached Thames Street, wherein a great crowd of pedestrians thronged. What might be thought of us and our grotesque burden I could not so much as guess. Yet there was no way of reaching our destination but to travel it tor a distance, and so I led them off to the left in the direction of the bridge. Those we met along the way seemed to shrink from us, giving us a wide berth. Some turned away in disgust. One or two simply wrinkled their noses and walked on. A lady, accompanied by a gentleman, quite collapsed in his arms. Yet how was one to move a dead man, if not by these rude means?

  “By God, this is far enough,” said my first volunteer.” Let’s put him down here.”

  He and Harry dropped Grimsby’s body roughly on the steps of St. Magnus Church.

  “Give me that bottle of rum.”

  As he uncorked it and took a deep draft from the bottle, I looked uneasily about at the passing throng. I read shocked disapproval on each and every face, and for the first time I felt truly embarrassed by this rough crew. I could make no excuses for the uncaring manner in which they had tossed their burden down, nor for the way they stood now, passing their bottles back and forth. Tom, I noticed, stood uneasy and apart from them too; he seemed to be avoiding my glance. His mates were a bit like children, bad boys, were they not? I had often seen such in Covent Garden, drinking, carrying on loudly, courting the displeasure of the crowd — and they not much older than I. These were men of some years. Yet all they had to exchange among themselves were their bottles and their tales of killing and whoring.

  (Did I truly think so deeply of the misbehavior of these half-wild seamen? Perhaps thirty years has given me a degree of wisdom with which I now generously endow my fourteen-year-old self. I do recall, however, the keen sense of embarrassment I felt there on the steps of St. Magnus. Such feelings are to some of us the most lasting and the least easily forgotten.)

  I thought perhaps that a reminder that the task was uncompleted might return them to it.

  “It is only a bit farther, ” said I mildly during a brief recess in their tale-telling.

  Most ignored me. The only one of them who gave some slight atten-

  tion to my discreet plea was the one I had to myself designated their leader. He frowned down upon me.

  “Patience, lad, ” said he.” We’ll be off in our own good time.”

  “Perhaps, sir, you could prop up the lieutenant so that he didn’t look, well, quite so dead.”

  At that he let forth a great roar of laughter.” Why, perhaps we could!”

  What followed was minutes of macabre play as they set about to place him in a sitting position on a step. Yet Mr. Grimsby stubbornly refused to balance. He would teeter to the left and totter to the right to the accompaniment of much laughter and comment from the seamen until at last they had him properly settled. Then the head of the corpus would flop back or forward, undoing their careful work and inspiring further laughter. At one point Harry stood before the dead lieutenant and gave him a stern lecture on holding his place like an officer and a gentleman, “for what would people think of you floppin’ and fallin’ about like some poor drunken sailor?”

  Great gales of laughter
at that.

  One shook his finger at the bruised and swollen face.” You must remember your station and keep your position, sir.”

  This was finally too much for the belligerent group of onlookers who had gathered to witness this gruesome sport. Two or three of them appeared to be men of consequence. One of these stepped forward and slapped the cobblestoned walk with his stick.

  “I wish to inform you,” said he, “that I have sent my man to search tor a constable. For all I know, you may have murdered this officer. You now mock and jeer at your victim like a pack of savages. What sort of men are you to perpetrate this manner of outrage?”

  One of the crewmen, bottle in hand, came to attention and gave a mock salute.

  “Royal Navy, sir” said he, “His Majesty’s Ship Adventure.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure your captain will want to know of this.”

  At that the men from the frigate grew silent, and their leader grabbed off his cap and tugged at his forelock.

  “Beggin’your pardon, sir. We didn’t mean no harm, ” said he, “and we certainly didn’t do no harm to this here officer. He was found by a boatman and pulled off one of the supports of the bridge yonder — drownded he was. When we saw him, we knew him as one of our own, off the Adventure. In truth, sir, he was a good officer, and we respected him, though you might not judge it from our play. This lad here” —gesturing to me —“told us that there was a place nearby where bodies was to be taken. We was haulin’ him off when we stopped to rest, and the drink got the best of us.”

  “I know of no such place in this environ,” said the man of substance.

  “Oh, but there is, sir,” said I.” The Raker’s place is only a bit beyond here.”

  “The Raker? Good God!”

  A shiver went through the man on that hot July day. Nor was he the only one in that small group of onlookers who responded so.

  “Well,” said he, “if that is so, then be on your way and take these remains with you. At the very least you’ve shown gross disrespect for the dead. ‘

  “And on church property, too, ” chimed in another.” That counts as blasphemy!”