The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 26

"Then someone must be in there," said Bob reaching for a musket.

"No," Daniel said. "It was lit by an Infernal Device."

The door of the Tor swung inward, shouldered out of the way by a waxing draught. The archway was a gem of yellow light. A small mountain of split and dried cord-wood had been piled on the floor, and had now been set a-blaze. Sparks had begun to fountain up into the sky, jetting through orifices that had been hacked through the upper floor and the roof.

"It is an admirable piece of work," said Sir Isaac Newton, flatly and with no trace of rancor. "The rising tide obliges all to run inward to the Tor. But packed as it is with excellent fuel, this will soon become a furnace, and anyone near it will be roasted like a suckling pig. It truly is a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea."

Barnes stood up in the boat, putting all his weight on his one leg and bracing his peg against a bench. He cupped his hands round his mouth and bellowed towards the darkling isle: "Turn back! Retreat! There is not room for you here!" And then he fell back on his a.r.s.e as the boat was lifted and shoved by a tidal swell. "I do not wish to hear my First Company being drowned," he said.

"Colonel, let us row toward the Isle of Grain-you can warn them all, and rescue most," Daniel suggested.

"Leave me on yonder vessel," Isaac demanded, gesturing toward the hooker, which was now upright and adrift.

"I cannot abandon Sir Isaac Newton on a derelict fis.h.i.+ng-boat!" shouted Barnes, exasperated.

"Then do you stay with him, Colonel," suggested Sergeant Bob, "and take a few men. I'll row toward the land, advancing with the tide-warning the men off as I go, rescuing the mired."

A thud and crackle from the Tor as a floor-beam gave way. A billion orange sparks spewed from the openings and schooled in the dark.

"I too shall remain with Sir Isaac," Daniel heard himself saying, like a man lying in state, listening to his own eulogy. "We'll get the hooker clear of the fire, and navigate by the stars. Sir Isaac and I have some knowledge of the stars."

The Monument SUNSET.

"FIRE," SAID J JACK, down on a knee, perspective gla.s.s steady on the railing. down on a knee, perspective gla.s.s steady on the railing.

This command-given in a mild conversational tone-was not answered with the expected h.e.l.lish noises and exhalations. He peeled his eye from the lens and was abruptly reminded that he was two hundred feet above London. A bad time for a dizzy spell. He spanked the railing, clenched his eyes shut, and announced: "The Scotsman is inside the White Tower; I say, Fire!" Then he opened his eyes, got up, and backed round the stony bole of the Monument, for these things were as likely to explode as to fly. He heard Jimmy and Danny murmuring to each other, then a sputter as the fuse caught, then running feet. The lads came into view. Immediately a basilisk-sound, half hiss and half scream, erupted on the other side and rapidly dwindled.

Jack ran around to see a ray of black fog cantilevered out over the city. On the near side its billows were weirdly lit up, like a squall-line at sunset. But this paled and dissolved in a few moments. The only evidence that remained of this grievous and execrable crime against all known precepts of safe rocketry was a house with a hole in its roof, just short of Mincing Lane, and a gossamer thread connecting said hole with the large pulley lashed to the lantern of the Monument above their heads. From there it ran almost straight down into a polished copper kettle about three paces away from Jack, between the feet of a large Red Indian. The Indian grabbed the thread in one hand lest all of what remained be sucked from the kettle by its own weight.

Jack looked over the railing and saw the filament plunge down and away toward the east. He lost track of it in the Monument's shadow. But he could see a lot of boyish ferment on the roof of the Church of St. Mary-at-Hill, five hundred feet away: some leaping, some hopping into the air, some hurling of stones with strings tied to 'em. To any observer who did not know, as Jack did, that a thread of silk was floating in the air a few yards above these people's heads, it would have looked like the cavorting of men and boys made mad by witchcraft or syphilis, a kind of Bedlam al fresco.

A distant rocket-scream sounded from near the Tower of London. Such was the speed of this second rocket's flight that by the time its sound carried to the top of the Monument, and drew Jack's gaze that way, it was gone, and there was nothing to be seen but a black rainbow bent over Tower Hill and the Moat, connecting the Barking Churchyard behind All Hallows Church to the battlements of the White Tower. "Not a pot of gold, but close to one," Jack remarked. He was fortunate enough, now, to be looking in the right direction to see yet another dart of white flame jump up from the River Thames, pulling a shroud of black powder-smoke behind it. It reached apogee above Tower Wharf and then winked out. Momentum carried it north over the Outer Wall to crash in Tower Lane. "d.a.m.n, too short!" Jack cried, as the sound of the launch reached them.

"They've spares on the barge, Dad," Danny said.

He glanced down onto the Church of St. Mary-at-Hill. The men and boys on the roof had settled down noticeably-in fact, most of them were running away, which was, of course, the normal practice, from the scene of their crimes. Only two remained. One was working on his lap. The other was acting as a sort of lookout. He needn't have bothered; the rocket that had screamed over his head a few moments ago had ignited a fire in the attic of that house on Mincing Lane, and there, rather than the church's roof, was where the attentions of the (paltry number of mostly self-appointed) authorities and the (vastly more energetic and numerous) Mobb were now directed.

The one who had been working on his lap suddenly sprang back, jumping to his feet, and elevated his chin, as if he had released a carrier pigeon and were watching it take flight. The Indian beside Jack began to pull in string, hand-over-hand, as rapidly as he could. "Look out below!" called Jimmy, as he picked up the copper string-vat and simply dropped it over the rail.

A curse from Danny: "Hit the Lanthorn Tower this time." Then another whoos.h.i.+ng scream from the river. Jack glimpsed another smoke-p.r.o.ng in the distance.

The kettle made a funny noise, a cross between a splat and a bong, as it hit the pavement below them. Tomba was grinning beneath a perspective gla.s.s. "Men in kilts on the battlements of the White Tower," he announced.

"And just what are those men doing?" inquired Jack, whose attention was fixed on the roof of the church of St. Dunstan-in-the-East, where a scene had just played out remarkably like that moments earlier on the roof of St. Mary-at-Hill.

"It appears that they are drinking usquebaugh and line dancing," returned Tomba.

"One day your wit shall be the death of you, and my hands around your throat shall be the instrument," Jack remarked calmly.

"Some of them are pulling in the string from Barking Churchyard," Tomba returned, "others raising a banner."

"Raising a banner!? I gave no instructions touching a banner," Jack hollered. I gave no instructions touching a banner," Jack hollered.

"A Cross of St. Andrews, and-"

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Is any of those Highlanders concerning himself with a pulley?"

"The pulley is being worked on-hold-oh, my G.o.d!" Tomba exclaimed, and drew back from the perspective gla.s.s laughing.

"What is it?"

"The rocket. It nearly knocked one of them down," Tomba explained, as yet another basilisk-shriek reached them from the river.

"So the last one flew true?"

"Skipped across the roof of the White Tower itself like a flat stone on a pond," confirmed Danny, who had watched with his naked eyes. "Pa.s.sed between a Scotsman's legs and smacked into the north parapet."

"I hope that the Scotsman has had the presence of mind to stomp on the string."

"They appear to be pulling it in-there's a chap working by the pulley now-good! The pulley is threaded-"

"The roof of Trinity House is cleared!" Tomba mentioned, having trained his spygla.s.s on a building halfway between them and the White Tower.

"Take up the slack smartly now!" Jack called down over the railing. He was awash in fiery light up here. The men at the base of the column were toiling in blue dusk, pulling in loose thread from above as fast as their hands could move. They were working in a clear s.p.a.ce, a sort of defensive perimeter that had been set up round the base of the column. Around it the black lint of the Mobb was rapidly gathering, kept at bay by very large hoodlums with whips, and archers who had scaled the plinth of the great column to take up sniping-positions under the wings of its dragons.

"What rumor did you put out?" Jack asked of Jimmy. Directly below he could see the flattened kettle gleaming like a newly minted coin.

"That Jack the Coiner would appear atop the Monument at sundown and throw guineas," Jimmy answered.

"Barking Churchyard is clear!" announced Danny, which meant that although none of them could see it, the silken filament now stretched in a single uninterrupted catenary from the great pulley, above their heads, across a distance of a bit less than half a mile to a similar device that the Scotsmen had strung from the southeastern turret of the White Tower. From there it ran over the inner and outer walls, above the Wharf, to a barge that had drifted down the river during the last hour or so and then tossed out an anchor. Though this would not have been obvious to anyone viewing it from the level of the water, it was plain from this elevated viewpoint that a great wheel, several yards across, was mounted in that barge. Its axis was vertical, so its rim was parallel to the deck. It was not a mighty sort of wheel, not like an anchor cable's windla.s.s, but more like a spinning-wheel laid on its side. A dozen or more crewmen stood around it, and now, evidently on some signal from the White Tower, they began to turn that wheel-reeling in the same string that they had sent rocketing over the battlements a minute ago. Within a few moments the result of their exertions could be detected up atop the Monument. For a change in the string's angle was plainly visible as the tension increased.

"Supply!" screamed Jack to the men below, who were gathered round an exceptionally large wagon chocked at the foot of the Monument. A patchwork of work-out sails had covered its contents until now. These were flung off to expose a huge cylindrical vat in which miles of cordage had been expertly coiled. But this was not ordinary line, of uniform thickness. That up here at the top of the Monument, running through the pulley at an accelerating clip, was fine silken cord. But what was emerging from the vat was noticeably coa.r.s.er. And what was coiled in the bottom-most part of the vat was as thick as a man's wrist.

"Righto," Jack said, and caught the eye of the Indian. "And so 'twould seem that very soon I shall require the Chariot of Phaethon. And another for His Reverence."

His Reverence let it be known that he was amused. The Indian heaved a sigh and shambled through the door to begin the long journey down stairs.

"What are you snickering at?" Jack demanded, making a semicircular excursion round the column to discover Father edouard de Gex. The Jesuit had, for lack of a better word, cornered the four Jewish tourists at the southwestern vertex of the platform. At his feet rested a black strong-box. The lid was open. Diverse gnarled keys and hand-hammered padlocks littered the deck all round. He had mostly emptied the casket by this point, but some of its contents could still be seen: it had been full of small leathern bags, each bag filled with something of High Specific Gravity that clinked as de Gex transferred them one by one into a stout ox-hide satchel. A second satchel, already full, sat next to the one he was packing.

"You lay a curse on yourself without knowing it," de Gex answered. "You should call it the Chariot of Apollo."

"Apollo is the sobriquet of Leroy-I was trying to show deference."

"All right, Helios then. Never Phaethon."

"Half the young blades in town are rattling about in Phaethons," Jack returned, "why can't I fly above London in one?"

"Phaethon was a sort of b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of Helios. He borrowed his papa's gleaming Vehicle and went for a heavenly Drive. But seeing the great height to which he had ascended, and terrified by the Heroes, Legends, and t.i.tans hung in the sky by the G.o.ds as Constellations, he lost his wits; the chariot ran out of control, scorching the earth; Zeus struck him down with a thunderbolt and he crashed into a river. So when you refer to your conveyance as the Chariot of Phaethon-"

"The import of your Tale is not lost on me," Jack let it be known, watching de Gex transfer the last of the clinking bags into the satchel. Then, in a different tone, he reflected: "It is curious. I always phant'sied that the rites of the ancient Pagans, prosecuted as they were in airy temples by naked maidens and prancing b.u.t.t-boys, and enlivened by feasts and orgies, must have been infinitely more diverting than the insufferable ceremonies of Christians; yet the dramatick yarn of this Phaethon, intoned by Your Reverence, is as dry, tedious, and didactic as the litanies of the Baptists."

"I am speaking to you, Jack, of your pride, of your ignorance, and of your doom. I am sorry that I can not make it any more festive."

"When night fell, who rode the moon-chariot?"

"Selene. But that was of silver."

"If those layabouts on the barge do not spin that wheel any faster, we shall be compared to her her."

"The twilight will linger for a while yet," de Gex predicted.

Jack went to inspect the rope coming up from below, and pa.s.sing over the pulley and out into the air above London en route to the said barge. He was surprised to find that it had already waxed to the thickness of his finger. Surprised, and a bit dismayed, for he'd been hoping that it would snag on a weatherc.o.c.k somewhere and snap while it was still slender and fragile. But now that it had achieved such a thickness it was unlikely to break. He would actually have to do this thing.

Some minutes pa.s.sed. London as always continued in roiling feverish busy-ness: the Mobb around the base of the Monument, swollen to a thousand, chanting for their promised guineas, here parting to make room for a mad dog, there clumping to a.s.sault a pick-pocket. The fire brigades at their pumping-engines in the Tower hamlets and now in Mincing Lane, surrounded by more of the Mobility, protected by cordons of lobsterbacks. The Highlanders atop the White Tower, victorious but somehow forlorn, as no one seemed to have noticed what they'd accomplished. The men on the barge spinning the giant wheel, like the main gear of an immense clock. The s.h.i.+ps on the Pool as ever, going about their toils and quotidian adventures perfectly oblivious to all of these things.

Phaethon himself was just in the act of crash-landing on the upper Thames, some leagues to the west of town. With any luck he'd set fire to Windsor Castle on his way down. The radiance of his final approach sprayed flat across London and made the whole city jagged and golden. Jack looked at it all, most carefully, as he had once looked out over Cairo, and indeed the place suddenly looked as queer and as outlandish to him as Cairo once had. Which was to say that he saw all through a traveler's dewy eye, and perceived all that was overlooked by the c.o.c.kney's bra.s.s-tacks stare. He owed it to Jimmy and Danny and all his posterity to look at it thus. For de Gex was right, Jack was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had ascended to a great height and hob-n.o.bbed with Heroes and t.i.tans and seen things he was never meant to see. This might be the last time in many a generation that a Shaftoe might gaze down from such a vantage-point and see so much so clearly. But what was he seeing?

"Dad," Jimmy was saying, "it's time, Dad."

He looked over. The rope was as thick as his wrist now, and it no longer moved; it had been tied off down below, the plinth of the Monument pressed into service as a bitt. Half a mile distant, out in the river, the barge had chopped its anchor-cable, and flung great bags of heavy fabric-sea-anchors-into the river. The flow of the Thames had inflated them. They pulled the barge downstream with immense force, exerting tension on the full length of the rope that could be sensed from here-for the rigging that bound the great pulley to the top of the Monument had now begun to groan and tick like that of a s.h.i.+p that has been struck by a blast of wind. Riding on that taut hawser, now, above their heads, was a traveling block: that is to say a grooved pulley spinning on a well-greased axle in a casing of forged iron. Dangling from it were two chains that diverged slightly and fastened to opposite ends of a short length of plank. Jimmy was gripping one of those chains, Danny the other. The Chariot of Phaethon was available for boarding. Everyone up here-even the Jews, who'd left off being scared and were now fascinated-was looking at it significantly, and then looking at Jack.

"All right, all right," said Jack. He strode to it. De Gex handed him one of the two satchels and Jack slung it over his shoulder. "Padre, I'll see you anon," Jack said dismissively. Even de Gex sensed that he should draw away now. Jack climbed up to the plank, which hung about at the level of the railing. Seating himself upon it, and situating the heavy satchel in his lap, he braced his feet on the rail as if afraid the boys might pitch him off before he was ready. Which was a quite reasonable fear, as he was set to give them Advice.

"Now, lads," he said, "either this'll work or it won't. If it goes awry, never forget there's other places to be besides England; you've seen more of 'em than most, I don't need to tell you twice. The Great Mogul is always hiring good mercenaries. Queen Kottakkal would be delighted to have you back in her court, to say nothing of her bedchamber. Our partners in Queena-Kootah would give you a hero's welcome at the foot of Eliza Peak. Manila's not such a bad place, either. I do not recommend that you go to j.a.pan. And remember, if you go the other way, to the sh.o.r.es of America, and travel west long enough, you ought to cross the path of good old Moseh, a.s.suming the Comanches haven't made him into moccasins. So there's no purpose to be served in tarrying here, lads, if I end up at Tyburn. Just do me a favor before you leave."

"All right," said Jimmy grudgingly.

Jack had avoided looking into his sons' faces during this Oration, because he reckoned they'd not wish to be seen with tears streaming down their faces. But looking up at Jimmy now he saw dry eyes and a quizzical if impatient phizz. Turning the other way, he saw Danny gazing distractedly at the White Tower.

"Did you hear a single f.u.c.king word I said?"

"You want us to do you a favor," Danny returned.

"Before you embark on a new life overseas, a.s.suming that is your fate," Jack said, "find Eliza and tell her she is my true love." And then he jerked the chains loose from the restraining grip of first Jimmy, then Danny. He leaned forward, pushed off against the rail with both feet, and launched himself into s.p.a.ce above London. His cloak spread in the wind of his flight like the wings of an eagle, revealing, to anyone who might be gazing up into the sky, a lining made from cloth-of-gold that glistered in the rays of the setting sun like the chariot of Apollo. He was on his way down.

Worth's Coffee-house, Birchin Lane, London SUNSET.

DAPPA STOOD FROZEN for a count of ten. As if standing still would make him white. for a count of ten. As if standing still would make him white.

"Sir," said Jones, chuckling, "why, this looks like you! What's it say?"

Thank G.o.d for Jones, and for his being such a perfect imbecile. Many a s.h.i.+p's officer, caught in storm or battle, and seized by a natural tendency to freeze up in terror, was moved to action by the vivid helplessness of his crew.

Dappa's body was not answering well to commands from the quarterdeck, so in stepping forward he bashed the table with the brawn of his thigh, nearly toppling it. But he got the libel in his hand and s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. He looked round the coffee-house and met a few eyes, but they showed nothing beyond momentary curiosity at the unbalanced movements of the Blackamoor. None of them had seen this handbill.

"What's it say?" Jones repeated.

Dappa shoved it into the hip pocket of his coat, where it was about as welcome as a t.u.r.d. But at least it was hidden. "It says something that is not true, about me," he said, "a perfect and abominable lie." And he wished that he could have said it in a low and quiet voice. But pa.s.sion made him squawk like a strangled hen. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think. "An attack," he said, " 'tis an attack on me by Charles White-a Tory. Why on me? No reason. Thus 'tis not an attack on me me but on what I am a part of, namely, but on what I am a part of, namely, Minerva Minerva." He opened his eyes. "Your s.h.i.+p is under attack, Jones."

"I am well enough accustomed to that, sir."

"But not with cannonb.a.l.l.s. This is a paper attack. Sh.o.r.e artillery is firing on you-what must you do?"

"Firing on us, us, you mean, sir," Jones returned, "and since sh.o.r.e batteries are difficult to silence, we must move out of their range." you mean, sir," Jones returned, "and since sh.o.r.e batteries are difficult to silence, we must move out of their range."

"Correct. But the indenture that we came here to sign-it must be signed or our obligations to the s.h.i.+p-chandler shall not be met. We must meet those obligations, Jones, or our credit and our good name will be spoilt, do you understand? Mr. Sawyer is honest, as such men go-when he comes here, pretend to read whatever he places in front of you, and sign it. Then run down to the river and hie to or our obligations to the s.h.i.+p-chandler shall not be met. We must meet those obligations, Jones, or our credit and our good name will be spoilt, do you understand? Mr. Sawyer is honest, as such men go-when he comes here, pretend to read whatever he places in front of you, and sign it. Then run down to the river and hie to Minerva Minerva and tell the Captain to begin raising anchor and tell the Captain to begin raising anchor now now."

"Are you going to leave me alone here, sir?" Jones inquired.

"Yes. I shall try to get back to the s.h.i.+p. If I'm not aboard at the next high tide, though, then you and Minerva Minerva must leave must leave me me." Dappa glanced up toward the window and saw the worst thing he could could have seen: the tout who had been handing out the libels had hunted them through the crowd, and was now pressing his s.h.i.+ny face against the window. He met Dappa's eye. Dappa felt the way he had once in Africa, a little boy playing near the river, when he had looked up and seen the striped eye of a crocodile looking back at him. It was as if a thousand ancestors were standing round him in a great invisible chorus, screaming, "Run! Run!" And run he would have, but for the knowledge that he was the only black man in a mile, and could never run far or fast enough. have seen: the tout who had been handing out the libels had hunted them through the crowd, and was now pressing his s.h.i.+ny face against the window. He met Dappa's eye. Dappa felt the way he had once in Africa, a little boy playing near the river, when he had looked up and seen the striped eye of a crocodile looking back at him. It was as if a thousand ancestors were standing round him in a great invisible chorus, screaming, "Run! Run!" And run he would have, but for the knowledge that he was the only black man in a mile, and could never run far or fast enough.

A shadow fell over the coffee-house now, like that of a cloud pa.s.sing before the sun. But it was not a cloud, but a great black coach, drawn by four black horses, pulling up in front of the coffee-house, coming to a stop.

The tout paid no mind to the coach-and-four. He had got a wild triumphal look on his face-the only thing that could have made him any less pleasant to look at. Keeping his eye fixed through the window, he began sidestepping toward the entrance.

"Repeat the instructions I gave to you," Dappa said.

"Wait for Mr. Sawyer. Look at the indenture like I'm reading it. Sign it. Run to the s.h.i.+p. Get underway at high tide with or without you."

"And when you return from Boston, G.o.d willing, we shall sort it out then," Dappa said, and stepped out from behind the table. He began moving toward the door.

Before he could reach it, the door was pulled open from outside. The view into the street was blocked by the glossy black flank of the coach. Dappa drew his right hand up his hip, twitched the skirt of his coat behind him, and reached around to the small of his back. There, in the waistband of his breeches, was a dagger. He found its handle with his fingers but did not draw it yet. The tout appeared in the doorway, blocking his way out, ecstatic, hopping from toe to toe like a little boy who needed to p.i.s.s. He looked to one side, desperately wanting to catch someone's eye-to get a witness, or recruit an accomplice. Dappa supposed he was looking at whomever had pulled the door open. The tout's head swivelled round to bear on Dappa again, and he raised one hand and pointed his index finger at Dappa's face, like aiming a pistol. He had dropped his stack of handbills and they were blowing round his ankles, tumbling into the coffee-house.

A larger man came into view just behind the tout, and over his shoulder. He was blond and blue-eyed, a young bloke, better dressed, and he had something in his hand: a walking-stick, which he was tossing straight up into the air. The bra.s.s handle at its stop leaped above his head. He caught the stick about halfway along its length and in the same motion snapped it down. The bra.s.s ball at the top stopped hard against the back of the tout's head. The tout's face and then his whole body lost tone, as if all 206 of his bones had been jellied. Before the tout could fall to the ground and block the door, the blond man stepped in beside him and checked him out of the way. The tout disappeared from view, except for his feet, which lay twitching on the threshold. The big blond man allowed his walking-stick to slide down through his fist until the bra.s.s grip was back in his hand. He bowed to Dappa in the most genteel way imaginable and extended his free hand toward the carriage, offering Dappa a lift. And it was not until that moment that Dappa recognized this man as one Johann von Hacklheber, a Hanoverian, and a member of the household of the d.u.c.h.ess of Arcachon-Qwghlm.

DAPPA WAS IN THE WOODEN womb of the carriage. It smelled like Eliza's toilet-water. Johann did not climb inside with him but closed the door, slapped the side, and began distributing commands in High-Dutch to the driver and a pair of footmen. The footmen sprang from their perch on the back of the vehicle and began wading through the litter on the street, s.n.a.t.c.hing up every copy of the libel that they could find. Dappa watched this through the coach's window, then, when it began to lurch forward, drew the shutters, leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands. womb of the carriage. It smelled like Eliza's toilet-water. Johann did not climb inside with him but closed the door, slapped the side, and began distributing commands in High-Dutch to the driver and a pair of footmen. The footmen sprang from their perch on the back of the vehicle and began wading through the litter on the street, s.n.a.t.c.hing up every copy of the libel that they could find. Dappa watched this through the coach's window, then, when it began to lurch forward, drew the shutters, leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands.

He wanted to weep tears of rage, but for some reason they would not come. Perhaps if this had unfolded into a speedy and clean getaway he might have relaxed, and then released the tears. But they were on one of the most congested streets in all of London. Yet he felt no urgency to give the coachman instructions, for it would be a quarter of an hour before they came to any sort of turning-point. That would be at the intersection with Cornhill, a hundred feet away.

After some moments he reached into his pocket and took out the handbill. He smoothed it out on his thigh and cracked the window-shutters to spill light on it. All of which required conscious effort and a certain fort.i.tude, as in all ways he wanted to lean back and enjoy the gentlemanly comfort of this coach and pretend that this wretched, abominable, vile, vicious thing had never been done to him.

He did not know exactly how old he was-probably about three score. His dreadlocks were black at the tips but gray at the roots. He had circ.u.mnavigated the terraqueous globe and knew more languages than most Englishmen knew drinking-songs. He was an officer of a merchant s.h.i.+p, and better dressed than any member of the Kit-Cat Clubb. And yet this! This piece of paper on his thigh. Charles White had printed it up, but any Englishman could have done the same. This particular configuration of ink upon the page had made him into a hounded fugitive, laid him at the mercy of a loathsome street-corner tout, forced him to flee from a coffee-house. And it had put a cannonball in his stomach. Was this how Daniel Waterhouse had felt when a stone the size of a tennis ball had dwelt in his bladder? Perhaps; but a few minutes' knife-work and such a stone was gone. The cannonball in Dappa's stomach was not so easy to remove. Indeed he knew that it would return, every time he recalled the last few minutes' events, for the remainder of his days. He might be able to reach Minerva Minerva and sail out of range, but even if he were in the Sea of j.a.pan, Charles White's cannonball would hit him in the belly whenever his mind was idle and his thoughts returned to this day. And return he would, like a dog to his vomit. and sail out of range, but even if he were in the Sea of j.a.pan, Charles White's cannonball would hit him in the belly whenever his mind was idle and his thoughts returned to this day. And return he would, like a dog to his vomit.

This, he now perceived, was why gentlemen fought duels. Nothing else would purge such dishonor. Dappa had killed several men, mostly pirates, and mostly with pistol-shots. The chances were better than even that, in a fair duel, he could put a pistol-ball into Charles White's body. But duels were for gentlemen; a slave could not challenge his master.

Stupid idea anyway; he needed to get to Minerva, Minerva, to escape. The coach was negotiating a right turn onto Cornhill, therefore working its way back round toward the Pool. If it had turned left it would mean they were taking him toward Leicester House, where Eliza lived with a nest of Hanoverians. Yes, better to get out of town. to escape. The coach was negotiating a right turn onto Cornhill, therefore working its way back round toward the Pool. If it had turned left it would mean they were taking him toward Leicester House, where Eliza lived with a nest of Hanoverians. Yes, better to get out of town.

And yet the notion of challenging Charles White to a duel, putting a bullet in him, had seemed so delicious. Really the only thing that had given him any satisfaction since the shock of seeing his own name on this doc.u.ment.

He opened the shutters a bit more and looked round through the side and rear windows. Johann was looking right back at him from no more than twelve feet away. He was following in the wake that the coach had made through the crowd. He told Dappa, with a sharp movement of the head, to close the shutters. Then he turned round to look behind him. Dappa saw now that they were being tailed, at a leisurely walking pace, by a pair of men, each of whom was clutching a copy of the handbill. Scanning the width of Cornhill he saw more copies of the libel being handed out. He supposed that the only thing that prevented a hue and cry from going up was the reward, and the fact that those who seized him would not wish to divide it by the whole number of the Mobb. So for the nonce his pursuers were only two, and they were being held at bay by Johann, who had a sword; but Charles White could stamp out new pursuers as fast as printing presses could be operated.