gorging himself on the good food at Swineshead.
The treasure had never been found.
And now, because of a few gold coins happened upon when washed from the mud of
the dyke, I was accused.
“That is nonsense,” I said. “The coins were obviously lost by some traveler, or
dropped by some looter after a battle. I found them in the mud, washed out by a
heavy rain. They had been in a leather bag.”
“I believe you, but there are those who do not.”
My thoughts raced ahead. Even to one as relatively inexperienced as I, it was
plain to see what would happen. I should be imprisoned and questioned, perhaps
tortured. There was nothing for me to tell, so the torture might continue for a
long time, and surely imprisonment would follow.
How could I convince them that I had found nothing beyond the coins I had sold?
I was suddenly sick and empty. There had been other coins, too. Following upon
my little success with my first find, I had obtained the Leland manuscript and
set out to investigate another place I recalled from my travels. There, too, I
had been fortunate.
“Believe me, Peter, I know nothing. Only that I must escape, and now. If I do
not, I see no way to avoid prison.”
My voice lowered. “Peter, I cannot longer wait.” In my mind came something my
father had told me. It was a chance. “Peter, go to Tempany. Tell him to sail at
once.”
“And you?”
“Tell him to watch for a boat from off the Bill of Portland.”
“All ports will be watched, you may be sure of it.”
“Tell him to sail, but to take his time when passing the Bill and to keep a
sharp lookout. I have a thought of what I can do.”
Turning my head to look, I suddenly noticed that the other man was gone!
Instantly, I was on my feet. “Peter, I shall send you goods. You market them and
buy for me. You’ll do this?”
“As we planned. Of course.”
In an instant, I was out of the door, and in two strides across the narrow stone
wharf. Peter followed me. Black Tom took one look at my face and unloosed the
mooring.
From in front of the Prospect, we heard a rush of feet and a rumble of voices.
Peter stepped quickly into the boat with us. “I do not think they know me,” he
said, “and if I can get away—”
We shoved off, but not out into the stream. Hugging the shore where we would not
be immediately visible, we eased away from the Prospect—first under some looming
houses beside the Thames, then under the reeds that grew along the bank. We were
strong men, Tom and I, and we bent to our oars with a will. Behind us we heard
curses and shouts, but looking back we could see nothing but the green of the
bank, those lovely banks of the Thames that I might never see again.
“Where are you for?” Peter asked.
“The Grapes. I promised to leave the boat there.”
“Good! In Limehouse I have friends.”
“Can we trust them?”
Peter chuckled. “With everything but your money or your wife. Rob you, they
might. Betray you, never!”
It was an old building, patched up and vine-grown, with willows, and in back of
these, elms. We left the boat at The Grapes, and went down a lane from the
river.
Peter’s friends were a motley lot, as pretty a bunch of rogues as it had ever
been my fortune to see—and better seen by daylight than after dark.
“Horses? Of a surety! Anything for you, Peter! We have excellent horses, and if
you’d not be seen, we have covered lanes leading in all directions.”
He leaned toward me, an evil-looking man with a hatchet face and a bad scar
pulling down one eyebrow. His breath was foul, but his manner genial enough. I
noted a dagger in his waistband.
“You might,” he said, ‘leave some’at on the table for the poor o’ Limehouse …
the poor being me.” He spread wide his mouth in what I took for a grin and
looked at me slyly from under his brows. “You be one o’ Peter’s friends, be ye?
Peter it is who knows the gents. Peter’s a smart one, a shrewd one, knows a
thing or two, he does. He’s had me out of Newgate twice, lad … twice! I owe
him for that, and a thing or two else.”
The horses were brought around, two fine geldings, and a mare for Peter, who
would be riding into the heart of London. We parted, leaving a silver crown.
We rode north, following devious country lanes. We saw few people, herdsmen who
waved at us as we passed, and once a girl milking a cow, from whom we begged a
draught of the fresh warm milk.
At nightfall we came upon a small tavern, and rode into the yard. A swarthy,
hard-faced man faced us inside the gate. He looked from one to the other of us,
and liked not what he saw.
“It be a lonely road for travelers,” he said.
“Aye, but a pleasant way to see the land,” I replied. I think it was of
shillings and pence that he thought, and little else beside.
“It’s a bed we want, and a bit of something to eat,” I said. “And we’ve enough
to pay.”
“Aye. Get down then. The woman’s inside.”
“The horses will be wanting a rubbing down,” I said, “and oats.”
“If there’s a rubbing down, you’ll do it yourself,” he replied. “As for oats,
we’ve none about.”
“Hold up, Tom,” I said to Watkins. “We’ll go down the road a bit. There’s grass
a-plenty there, and our horses will fare the better for it.”
The tavern keeper saw his pence leaving and it upset him. “Oh, be not so much in
a hurry,” he protested. “Maybe I can find a bit of grain.”
“Find it,” I said, “and the rubdown, too. I’ll pay for what I get, but I’ll get
it, too.”
He liked me not. There was a hard, even look to his eye, but the thought of a
bed was on me, and a warm meal, else we’d have gone down the road to whatever
lay ahead.
The door opened under our hand and the common room of the inn. The woman who
came out drying her hands on her apron was pleasant-faced.
“A place to sleep,” I said, “and something to eat.”
She gestured at a table. “Sit. There’s a bit of meat and bread.”
The bread was good, freshly baked and tasty. The meat was likewise. Whatever
else he did, the man lived well. With such food before him, he’d little reason
to growl.
He came into the room, drew a draught of ale, and sat at another table. He’d
have a swallow and then he’d stare at us. Finally he said, “Do you come far?”
“Far enough for hunger,” I said.
“From London town?”
“London!” I said. “Hah!” Then I added grimly, “I’ve no liking for towns. I’m a
country man.”
That he had no liking for strangers was obvious. I wondered if it was the way
here, or whether he had another reason.
He looked at Tom. “You be lookin’ like a man from the sea,” he ventured.
“Aye,” Tom said, “I’ve been there.”
“So have I,” he said then. And to our surprise, he continued. “I did m’self well
on a voyage with Hawkins, so I left the sea and came here to where I was born.
I’ve the inn,” he said, “a few cows and pigs and some land of my own out yonder.
It is better than the sea.”
He took a draught of ale. “But I liked the sea, liked it well, and Hawkins was a
good man. No trouble made him show worry.”
A thought suddenly came to me. “Did you know David Ingram?”
He turned and looked at me sharply. “I knew him. Was he by way of bein’ a friend
to you?”
“I did not know him,” I said, “but I’d give a piece to talk to him. He made a
walk I’d like to hear about.”
He snorted. “It took no trouble to hear him. He talked of little else. Browne
… now there was the man. He saw it all, but had little to say.”
“From the land of Mexico to Nova Scotia is a far walk,” I said. “It was a time
to see what no white man had seen before.”
He took his ale and moved to our table. Putting it down, he leaned forward.
“Ingram was a fool,” he said. “He was always a fool, to my mind, though there
were those who thought much of him. He was good enough at sea, only he had a
loose mouth. Browne was the better man.”
He went into another room and came back with a sheet of parchment. “See this? He