“We’d best hurry. They won’t welcome interruptions at this late hour.”
They hailed Armstrong and Margo, who stepped smartly out of the way when sweating stevedores cursed at them. The Milverton was a sleek ship, her iron prow and bowsprit jutting so far out over the wharf, the tip end of the bowsprit nearly scraped the warehouse opposite. Men bustled across her, shouting commands and unfurling her great sails in preparation for departure. Loading was still underway, stevedores by the dozens manhandling huge casks and crates out of the warehouse along her port side, hauling them up into her vast iron holds. Skeeter kept a sharp watch for Kaederman. The captain, when Skeeter and the others climbed the main gangplank, was not amused by the interruption. “Get the bloody hell off my deck! I sail in a quarter hour and we’re behind schedule!”
“This won’t take long,” Tanglewood assured him, producing a conciliatory five-pound note and holding it up. “Have you taken any passengers aboard in the past twenty-four hours? Or a new crew hand, a Yank?”
“I bloody well have not and if you don’t get off my deck, I’ll toss you into the basin!” He snatched the five-pound note and stalked off, shouting at a hapless crewman who’d snarled a coil of rope leading from the capstan to the mainsail, which rattled lopsided in the rising breeze.
They searched the ship anyway, dodging irate ship’s officers, but were finally forced to admit that if Kaederman were aboard, he’d stowed away as cargo. They jumped back to the quay with minutes to spare before becoming stowaways, themselves. Standing on the quay, they watched until the Milverton pulled slowly and majestically across the basin toward the river, under tow by steam-powered tugs. They held vigil to make sure Kaederman didn’t show up at the last minute, but he remained a no-show. When the ship passed through the locks into the river, Skeeter pulled a rumpled list from his coat pocket and scratched off the Milverton’s name.