By the Knife Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Steve Partridge

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1784625 948

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  The Early Years: The Year is 1737

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  HMS Challenger: The Year is 1746

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  THE EARLY YEARS

  THE YEAR IS 1737

  CHAPTER 1

  Cromwell Lane ran from Eastern Road to Dutchman’s Wharf. A narrow, dark, downward-sloping road that steadily became muddier and more refuse-strewn as it descended. On the corner of lane and wharf stood the General’s Arms, a tavern popular with stevedores, longshoremen, bargemen and the working population of this part of London and its docks.

  By day, wagons and carts laboured up the hill, rattling on the cobbles, splashing in the mud, loaded with the various cargos from the ships offloading at the wharf.

  By night, the lane and the surrounding maze of alleyways gave way to a different population. Thieves, urchins, beggars and whores scratched or traded a living. Drunken seamen, the mass of immigrant labour and the occasional gentleman from other parts of the city looking for adventure in the more dangerous part of town made up the General’s Arms’ night-time clientele.

  In the dark of night the bar formed a puddle of light at the corner of lane and wharf in which the customers would laugh and sing, the noise echoing from the surrounding dark, unlit buildings. Drunken men and women argued, fornicated or fought against the pub walls and on tables.

  In the small hours of an autumn morning, a young boy hid in the entrance to an alley.

  From where he stood, John Carter could see most of the river side of the bar. The rigging of the ships, high above the buildings, was visible against the stars and seemed to lean over the tavern.

  Boxes and bales were piled along the wharf, which, deserted by all but a few drunks, stretched away into the darkness to his right.

  To his left the lane wound its way up the hill. Broken buildings made a darker mass in the gloom. The smell of the river and the refuse thrown into the lane was familiar to his nose. He shivered as mist from the river curled around his legs, sending a chill into his bones.

  John was fourteen years old and had been selling his body since the age of nine when one of his mother’s customers had raped him and paid for the privilege.

  His mother, a whore long gone in gin, had seen an opportunity and put him to work. John’s father, whoever he had been, had given his son blue-black hair, black eyes and a handsome face. Now with the mud oozing between his bare toes, John waited for a regular client.

  A party of six longshoremen started arguing outside the tavern, blocking John’s view. He moved quickly across the lane and hid in the entrance to the tavern yard. From here he could see through a side window into the bar. John cursed under his breath when he saw no sign of his client.

  The boy knew better than to be seen by the landlord of the tavern who hated urchins and was known to show his displeasure with a wooden cudgel he kept behind the bar.

  As he tried to see into the tap room, he was suddenly seized from behind. A big man, smelling of stale gin and sweat, dragged him into the tavern yard. John struggled to escape and the drunken man fell, taking both John and himself to the ground. John, who was underneath, struck his head against the cobbles of the yard and for a moment blacked out. When his head cleared the man had torn open his shirt and was tearing at his britches. John put both hands against the man’s chest in an attempt to push him off. His right hand closed on the handle of a knife and snatching it from its hiding place, John drove the blade up into the man’s chest.

  For a moment the drunk froze and then with a groan rolled onto his back, his hands fluttering at the knife that protruded from his body.

  John leapt to his feet and stood gasping for breath.

  With his britches round his feet and his shirt hanging open, John looked towards the yard entrance; nobody was in sight.

  Looking down at the drunken man, John snarled and dropped one knee onto his attacker’s stomach. Pulling the knife free, he drove it once again into the man’s body. He slashed, stabbed and cut; until, with a deep sigh, the man seemed to sink lower into the yard. Still John attacked him, spitting and cursing.

  After some moments he calmed down and, kneeling beside the body, John looked round once more. There was still no sign of discovery. With deft fingers he searched through the man’s pockets. He found nothing of value, not even a copper coin.

  Standing up, John tied his torn britches together; they had always been too big. His shirt, which he left open, was soaked in blood. His hands and chest also had blood on them.

  Taking a final look back at the yard entrance, John picked up the knife and after twice kicking the body, sprinted deeper into the yard.

  Climbing the rear wall John gained the roof of the tannery which backed on to the tavern and scrambling up to the ridge he slid down into the roof valley beyond. John had been this way before.

  Once in the roof valley he crawled back in the direction of the tavern and reaching the roof’s end lay flat, peering down into the yard.

  The body was hidden by the gloom, but he could see the gateway outlined against the light from the tavern.

  This was a major problem and John began to go over his chances. He had been attacked, but there was no justice for the likes of him. He had to get away from London, that was clear, but he knew no other place. He would need money if he was to leave. He had no friends. His mother was his only relative and she meant nothing to him; in fact, he hated her. There was nothing to keep him in London.

  Slowly a plan began to form in his mind. He
fingered the knife; it had a double-sided blade six inches long. The handle was bone with brass guard and cap, expensive, beautiful.

  A shout made him look up. A vague shape was stumbling about in the yard, shouting an alarm. Some drunk had fallen over the body. As John watched, more people started running into the yard. It was time to go. Jumping to his feet, John ran along the roof valley, dropped onto a lean-to roof at the rear and from there down to the alley that ran past the tannery.

  Running fast, John turned left and right, quickly putting distance between himself and Dutchman’s Wharf. He ran in the smaller, more broken down alleyways, climbed fences and passed through derelict buildings. When he felt safe in the maze of alleyways, he slowed to a walk and began working his way towards home.

  Stopping at a horse trough, John washed the blood from his shirt and body as best he could. He took special care to clean the knife.

  Approaching the one-room hovel he had lived in all his life John stopped and, hiding himself behind a heap of timber, watched the building for some time. Seeing no movement, he crept up to the door. John listened for any sound that might betray the presence of another. All was silent. Pushing the door open, he slid inside.

  In the far corner lay the heap of rags that served him as a bed. Pulling them aside he quickly dug in the earth floor and uncovered a canvas parcel that contained his worldly goods. Three copper coins and a silver snuff box he had stolen some days before and not yet sold. Pushing the bundle inside his shirt, he crossed to the door and left without a backward glance.

  Leaving his home meant nothing to him. His memories of that place were all filled with pain and despair.

  Keeping clear of Cromwell Lane, John made his way up into the city. By now the watch would have been called; they would call the guards from the tower and the hunt would be on. As light began to edge into the sky, John broke into a run; he had to arrive at his destination before first light.

  After running through the streets John climbed a set of heavy wooden gates and dropped down into a large enclosed yard down one side of which was a set of six stables. The horses blew a welcome as he walked past their stalls. Entering a hay store at one end of the yard, he burrowed between the hay and the rear wall.

  Making a den in the centre of the stack he settled down to sleep the day away. He ignored the ache in his stomach that reminded him he had not eaten in twenty-four hours and the rats that scurried in the hay.

  The landlord of the General’s Arms was in a foul mood. Dragged from his bar to find a dead body in his yard, some fool had called the watch before he could slide the corpse into the tide. He had then seen his bar almost empty when the watch arrived.

  Now a guardsman had called his captain who, on arriving, had insisted on using the tavern hand cart to send the body away.

  Captain Darcy was a big man, born in Dorset. He was a lifetime soldier who had fought for his king against half the armies of Europe. A small set of whiskers decorated his upper lip and a scar from a sabre cut crossed his chin. He was considered a fair if hard man by the men under his command.

  Entering the room, he stomped across to the bar.

  Looking the landlord up and down, Darcy saw that the man was big and fat with a shifty eye and dirty, pockmarked face. ‘Now, landlord,’ he said. ‘Did you know this man? Was he in your bar?’

  ‘He was,’ said the landlord. ‘He was in and no, I don’t know him.’

  ‘How many people were in this night? Can you list them?’

  ‘Many people,’ the landlord replied, ‘and no, I can’t list any of them.’

  Darcy looked round the half-empty bar; he had seen the people sliding away as he approached.

  I wonder what scum I would find here on the average night, he thought.

  ‘A murder, man, in your own yard and you say nothing?’

  ‘I was in the bar, not the yard,’ the landlord snarled.

  Captain Darcy turned for the door. ‘I’ll not let this go, man,’ he said. ‘I’ll return later.’

  The landlord spat on the floor as the army officer slammed the bar door behind him.

  As day gave way to night the horses were returned to their stables. John lay and waited as they were rubbed down and fed; he was in no hurry. Eventually the draymen left to get their dinner, which reminded John that this was his second day without food, but then he was used to being hungry. Sliding from his hiding place, John spent some time talking to the horses; he had time to kill. Managing to take a handful of oats, he made cold porridge with water from the trough and choked it down. The horses didn’t seem to mind.

  Once the surrounding houses were silent, John climbed over the gate and set off into the city. He wandered through the empty streets that he knew so well, eventually arriving at a wide road between high buildings, none of which showed lights. He chose a doorway and leaning against a stone pillar settled down to wait.

  As the night wore on some girls started walking the street; they smiled at John as they passed.

  Some of them stopped on the corner, talking and laughing; one blew him a wolf whistle. Slowly trade picked up and the girls began to disappear. John was starting to think this was not his night when a carriage came slowly down the street. John stepped forward to the road’s edge. He smelt money when he looked at the expensive rig.

  Drawn by two dark horses, the lamps of polished brass on each side of the carriage glinted and reflected light sparkled on the varnished woodwork. A coachman in a heavy coat, the collar turned up to hide his face, sat on the box.

  It passed and then turned round and coming back stopped opposite where John stood. The door opened and John climbed in. The leather upholstery smelt of polish and there was carpet under his feet.

  The occupant of the carriage said nothing as they picked up speed. John got the impression that he was old. He saw the glint of buckles and the man’s shape seemed small.

  After some time the carriage pulled into a yard at the back of a large house and stopped.

  The man climbed down and, signalling John to follow, entered the back door of the house. The coachman stayed on his box.

  John found himself in a large kitchen lit by two candles on a mantelpiece over an empty grate. A large wooden table ran the length of the room and the smell of food made John’s stomach turn. The silent man waved John to follow and set off into the house, walking down a hallway and climbing a flight of stairs.

  They entered a large bedroom, all wood panels and polished furniture. The large bed had white linen that shone in the light of the many candles scattered around the room. John stood staring at the paintings on every wall – he had never seen such luxury – until the man took his arm and pulled him towards the bed.

  Sometime later the candles had burned down to half their length and the old man lay sleeping with one leg and one arm laid over John’s body. Slowly John slid out from under the sleeping man, being careful not to wake him.

  Kneeling on the floor, he made sure the old man was fully asleep before silently pulling on his clothes. He moved across to the pile of clothes the man had dropped to the floor and went through the pockets. He found a purse that felt heavy and saw a glint of gold. There was a watch and a snuff box, both of which he put in his bundle.

  John then began moving around the room, looking into drawers and cupboards. He had just opened a chest, at the foot of the bed, when the man leapt up with a scream.

  ‘Thieving little bastard,’ he cried.

  John dodged to the other side of the bed and drew his knife. Seeing this, the man stopped, putting out his hands as if to push John away.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Just take the money and go.’ A slow grin spread across John’s face; his eyes looked like black tunnels into his brain in the depth of which lights seemed to flash. The grin turned into a snarl and he sprang forward slashing at the man’s hands with his knife. Screaming, the old man tried to run for the door, but John was on him, cutting and slashing to left and right. The man fell to the floor and John, pinning him
down, began to cut slowly, taking his time enjoying the pleading and crying.

  After a while John stood and removed his clothes, which were once again soaked in blood. On a side table there was a jug of water and a bowl with which he washed his body and knife, drying himself on the bed linen. He went to a cupboard and took down a new shirt – the man had many. It was a little big and long in the arm, but better than any John had ever owned. Finding britches, he pulled them on; they were a little short. He tried on shoes, but they were far too big.

  Putting his treasures in a canvas bag he had found in the chest by the bed, he began a careful search of the house. He took only small, light valuables that he could easily carry with the exception of a pair of carved pistols that he could not resist. John soon filled the bag.

  Eventually he returned to the kitchen and in a pantry found a half-eaten meat pie, a large piece of cheese and a loaf of bread. He brought all to the table and ate the pie with some cheese and a hunk of bread. Putting the rest of the food in his bag, he drank some water and then once more walked through the house making sure he had missed nothing. Satisfied, he let himself out of the back door

  The carriage stood as before, minus horses and coachman. John walked out of the yard and set off back to his hiding place.

  By the time he arrived it was almost light and he had not been hidden very long when the draymen arrived for the horses.