T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“I'm from Bristol,” a young buck called, “and I'd pay double to see Bonaparte shot.” The waiting audience thereabout laughed, but everyone turned to see who had made such a claim, and the rumour washed down the ranks of lingering men and women.

Every ten yards Morton called out again, “Berman?” but no one answered.

As they circled to larboard, Presley stood on the thwart. “Morton amp;” he said, raising an arm to point. There among a crowd of men he caught a glimpse of red-stained skin, and then ranks closed and it was lost.

Westcott ordered the coxswain to nudge the gig up to the nearest boat.

Morton went over the side onto the stern of the first boat, pushing his way through the crowd. “Bow Street,” he said as he went, trying to make as little fuss as he could. “We must pass.” Presley was behind him, and the two large men clambered from one boat to the next until they came to a lugger in the thick of the crowd. Morton pulled himself up the side, for it was a larger craft than most of the others. It was also the type of craft favored by smugglers, for they were said to be fast and weatherly.

Morton immediately marked the man Presley had spotted, but as he pushed his way through the crowd on deck, the man turned. He had a raspberry birthmark on his head, but he was not Jean Boulot.

“What is it you want, sir?” asked a gentleman standing nearby. “We've hired this ship, not you, and your presence is not wanted.”

Morton made a bow to the gentleman. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “We're constables from Bow Street, seeking criminals.”

The man looked at Morton a moment, and then his look of anger was replaced by a sly smile. “Well, only Spencer over there is a criminal-a barrister, to be sure.” The people collected on the deck laughed.

Morton backed away, climbing down the side and making his way across the flotilla to the gig. Presley stepped over the side after him and smiled at Morton, embarrassed.

“Not to worry, Jimmy,” Morton said. “Better to make a dozen mistakes than let a murderer slip away.”

The sides of the great ship loomed over the surrounding boats in the mist. Sounds from near at hand were strangely loud and sharply defined: the creaking of the Bellerophon 's cordage as the ship rolled ponderously in the low swell, the knocking of gunwales as the hundreds of boats thudded against each other, the cries of circling gulls.

Morton continued to call Berman's name as they passed down the larboard side. A young gentleman standing in a boat turned as he heard Morton call.

“Berman?” the young buck echoed. “He's here.” He gestured toward a square-built man in a fisherman's garb and cap. The fisherman gave the young man a sour look and then eyed Morton suspiciously.

“Bow Street!” Jimmy called out. “We want a word with you!”

And Berman was off, scrambling across the raft of boats, jumping from gunwale to stem, his boots clattering on the wood. Boatmen made way for him, even offered hands for balance. The coxswain nudged the bow up to the stern of a larger craft, and Morton grabbed the rail and scrambled over, Jimmy right behind. The men and women in the little ship made no effort to ease his passing, and around about men began to jeer and curse the “bloody horneys!”

Morton pushed through the crowd and climbed quickly down the side, his foot finding the gunwale of a small boat that rocked dangerously beneath his weight. He could see Berman, fifty feet ahead now and moving nimbly over the boats. If he opened the gap to a hundred feet, he'd be lost in the fog, and then one of his fisherman friends might carry him ashore.

Presley came clumsily down the side, almost pitching Morton into the water as he landed heavily on the boat. The occupants were all thrown to one side and squealed with fright. Unlike Morton, most people could not swim and had a terrible fear of drowning.

Morton leapt to the next boat and was about to step over a small gap of water when someone grabbed his coattail, throwing off his already precarious balance. One foot went into the water, and Morton fell forward into the next boat, which was packed with gawkers.

“I'll break your bleeding pate for that!” Presley roared, and the sheer volume and passion of his cry opened a path for Morton. He scrambled up and, pushing off men's shoulders, was across this boat and into the next. Leaping, he put one foot on a narrow stem and vaulted up the steep side of the lugger.

He pounded across the deck, the onlookers muttering imprecations. The Runner realised now that passing among the people was what slowed him, and he skirted the edges of boats so that he could step off the stern or the stem. He used the crowds of bodies as handholds, grabbing shoulders and heads, ignoring the curses and threats. Even so, Berman was almost lost in the fog. If he ducked down somewhere and no one gave him away, he'd be gone.

Vaulting over the heads of two small children, Morton landed on the stern of a boat, his foot slipping down onto the floorboards, his calf smarting from a long gouge. In an instant he was up, balancing along the stern, stepping awkwardly onto the next boat. Men tried to close ranks enough to slow him, forcing Morton to shove two men roughly aside.

“Drown the bastard!” someone called, and Morton was sure they didn't mean Berman.

He leapt onto the gunwale of an open boat. Only at the last second did he see the sweating faces of the men, the glazed eyes. As he tried to step across the boat, the smell of liquor engulfed him. The men to either side grabbed his legs, and Morton struggled to keep his balance, trying to fumble his baton out of its pocket.

Tumbling forward, Morton struck hard wood, and men piled on him, shouting drunkenly. He was struggling against unfair odds, in no position to strike out or even to push himself up.

A spatter of blood sprayed across the planks and frames by Morton's face, and the man who had taken to thumping him on the back fell limply away. Another was jerked roughly into the air, and Morton heard Jimmy Presley cursing loudly. The drunken men were falling back, trying to stay out of range of the young Runner's truncheon.

“I'll spill all your brains!” Presley was shouting. He threw another man bodily aside and pulled Morton up by his shoulder.

Not pausing to even look at his partner, Morton leapt into the next boat, his baton out now and his choler high. People took one look at him and shrank away.

Morton could just see Berman's dark blue jacket as he climbed over a crowd on the far edge of the circle of visibility. Morton's anger propelled him on, and he leapt and thrust his way forward, heedless of his own safety.

Berman's turn of luck came then. As he scrambled up the side of a big trawler, he managed to lose his handhold and fall into an opening between the boats. The sea washed out as he hit the surface, then rolled back over him. He was gone like a stone. People on the nearby boats stared down into the translucent green, dumbfounded, waiting, perhaps, for him to reappear-but he did not.

Morton peeled off his coat and boots as he came up to the water's edge. He dove into the cold water between the boats, hoping that there would still be an opening when he surfaced. The sea was shadowy from the boats overhead and the mist that blotted the sky. He could see the hapless Berman sinking slowly a few yards away. The man waved his arms ineffectively, but his boots were dragging him down.

Morton struck out and in a moment had hold of the man's collar. He broke for the surface, dragging the dead weight of the fisherman, kicking furiously as he felt the need for air overwhelm him. He broke the surface and pulled in a lungful of air. Jimmy Presley reached out a hand to him, and they soon had Berman laid out in a crowded boat. The man choked and coughed, spewing seawater like a ship's pump.