“Tell me!” she said, scarcely daring to breathe.
He said soberly, “You must be brave. There was a group of shanghaiing seamen last night—led by one of the known thugs along the warterfront, a crony of Alfie Bard’s.”
“I knew he was mixed up in it!” she gasped.
“They set upon Davy almost as soon as he and the dwarf left the tavern,” Luther said. “They knocked Davy unconscious and took him away. At this very moment he’s on a ship bound for Australia. That is, if he’s still alive.”
“You think he may be dead?” Becky asked brokenly.
“I’m afraid you’d better accept it,” Luther said sadly. “The man who told me about it swore me to not betray him before he’d talk. But he claimed Davy put up such a fight they were rougher with him than they should have been. They collected their fee for turning him over to the captain of the ship, but they all agreed it was a dead seamen they’d sold him, not a live one!”
Becky listened in a state of shock, unable to summon tears. She went to her room and sat there, she couldn’t organize her thoughts. Later Mrs. Crown came and told her she might have the night off. She made no reply, still staring blankly ahead of her. Only when the shadows of night came did she begin to cry.
Almost twelve months had gone by since the night of Davy’s murder. She had come to think of it as that, and mourned his death as any true wife might mourn her man. They had not been before the preacher, but they would have been had he lived. So she felt right in her mourning for him. The Crowns were sympathetic, as were the regular customers of the tavern.
In all this time there had been no word of Peg or the wicked Alfie Bard. But Becky had not given up hope of finding her sister and saving her. She let this be the motivation for her continuing to live and work. Every penny of her tips was placed in a new tin box, and she felt it might not be too long before she could make a trip to Paris and try and locate the missing Peg.
Jimmy Davis came regularly to the tavern and he was much against her going to seek out Peg. He advised her, “She went of her own accord. So let it be.”
“I can’t,” she said. “However foolishly she has acted, she is still my sister.”
“You’ll get no thanks,” the dwarf warned her. “And you might even place yourself in danger. If Davy were alive, he would not approve of it.”
Her smile was bitter. “But Davy is not alive, so that changes everything doesn’t it?”
The little man stared up at her shrewdly, his beer glass in hand, as he said, “It’s Alfie you’re after, isn’t it? You want to settle your score with him for what he had done to poor Davy!”
“That may be part of it,” she admitted. “But I do want to help Peg if I can.”
It was the summer of 1862 and while the winter had been unusually cold, this summer which followed it was sweltering. The crowded tavern was hot and filled with fetid air each night. There were times when she felt she couldn’t stand the heat and noise. But she had come to be fond of Luther and his wife, and did not want to leave them to break in new help in this difficult time. She decided to continue on.
To try and cool off, she took long walks in the daytime, her parasol carried prettily over her straw bonnet while she wore a new blue linen suit which was her best. Often she went in the direction of the docks to watch the great ships tied up there and those at anchor out in the river. Most of the sailing ships now had some sort of steam auxiliary engine. Some of the great vessels had paddle wheels amid-ships, and many ships of iron were showing themselves. The talk was that the day of the wooden ship was limited.
She had heard from many of the men who worked for Gregg & Kerr, that the shipyard was on the point of bankruptcy because the partners could not agree about building the new iron ships. Old man Kerr was determined to continue with wooden vessels since they had made the firm’s name. But the younger, Mark Gregg, was just as certain that iron ships were the thing of the future. They were faster and safer.
It was seventeen years since the
Great Britain
had been launched, and now the superiority if iron ships was no longer in question. Further, paddle wheels were being supplanted by screw propellers, a means of propulsion thought to be better than paddle wheels and much more speedy.
But shipping people and seamen were still divided in their views. The superiority of the iron ships with screw propellers was questioned when the 1600 ton
City of Glasgow
sank in 1854 after sailing from Liverpool. There were 480 on board and it was never heard of again. But ships continued to be built of iron and used the new method of propulsion.
In 1858 Brunei built the
Great Eastern
at Midwall—it slid into the Thames to be the largest ship afloat, a record it held for thirty years! It was built of iron, had paddle wheels and a screw propeller as well. It was 700 feet long and had a tonnage of 19,000. Some claimed she was ahead of her time, but all began to agree that ships of iron were the vessels of the future.
Becky had seen the
Great Eastern.
Her father had taken Peg and her to the docks to see it floating down the Thames in stately splendor. She could still recall five tall smokestacks and its five graceful masts; it had been partly under sail at the time. Her father had pointed out the paddle wheel and the propeller. The great size of the ship in contrast to those around her made them gasp! Becky tried to count the many portholes along its side and couldn’t begin to! And then they marvelled at the patriotic design on its stern. It had been an afternoon she would always remember.
Now she strolled along the wharves past the red brick offices of Gregg & Kerr to a spot overlooking the giant shipyard. There was only one small ship on the stays under construction. And this underlined the fact that the company was in some trouble.
In the distance the Houses of Parliament, St. Paul’s, and other London landmarks stood high in the sky, blue against the fleecy white and blue clouds. In the shipyard the small ship under construction looked lost; the yard was capable of building much larger craft. Men swarmed around the partially finished sailing ship like ants. And she thought with some bitterness that was how they must look to Mark Gregg, who certainly had no more regard for their lives than people generally had for the lives of ants.
She could never forget the day he had tossed six golden sovereigns to her in payment for her father’s life. She had thrown them at him and she would do it again if he made the same gesture. She blamed him, to a good extent, for what had happened to Peg. If they had not been driven by poverty to seek work at the tavern, Peg would never have met a man like Alfie Bard.
And she might never have met Davy. She could not deny that she had been lucky in her meeting and romance with Davy Brown. It would always be a sweet memory for her, no matter what fortunes life might deal her. Even if she loved again, Davy would always have a place in her heart. And she would never forgive Mark Gregg for what happened to her father, Peg, and to Davy. In a strange way, all these things were somehow linked with the shipbuilding firm. And for her the firm would always suggest a vision of that grim, square-jawed man behind his mahogany desk, unyielding and uncaring.
It began to shower heavily in the afternoon and Becky, along with all of London, was grateful for the break in the strange hot spell. She hurried back to Number Eight to rest a little before the evening’s work began. She had learned to do this in her year alone.
The rain continued through the evening, and the tavern was much more comfortable because of the cooling rain outside. The air had cleared, and a goodly number of the regular patrons were assembled in the big room. At mid-evening Becky changed to the role of entertainer and sang some familiar sea chanties which proved popular. Then she went back to carrying the heavy trays of drinks.
As it neared closing time and the crowd had thinned out, the door opened and a man came in. He paused in the doorway and gazed sternly about the big room. Apparently satisfied that it was safe to enter, he came in. His walk was unsteady, indicating he’d been drinking heavily, and he was well-dressed in a blue jacket and fawn trousers. He wore a blue top hat; he was clearly not of the usual tavern class.
All eyes were fixed on the well-dressed man as he went to take his place at the bar and order a whiskey. Luther poured him out a drink and said respectfully, “The best whiskey in the house for you, Mr. Gregg!”
Mark Gregg’s stern face showed a thin smile, “You know me, then?”
“Yes, sir,” Luther said in the same polite fashion. “I once worked in the yards.”
“Everyone has!” Mark Gregg said and downed the drink. “Another, please!” He rapped on the bar for service.
Luther set the drink before the shipyard owner almost immediately. “We are honored by your patronage, Mr. Gregg,” he said humbly.
Mark Gregg offered him an icy smile. “I expect you are,” he observed complacently. Then he started on this new drink.
His entrance in the saloon had created a lot of attention. Becky made a point of avoiding the well dressed man slouching against the bar mid way along it. A number of the other patrons were whispering about Gregg and pointing him out. She noticed that a tough-looking group of four near the door seemed to be extremely interested in the wealthy man.
Gregg had one more drink, then almost contemptuously threw payment for the liquor on the bar. “That should do,” he said, his words slurred as he turned and made his way unsteadily out of the place.
Luther picked up the money and gave Becky a knowing glance since she had just returned to the bar for some drink orders. He told her, “I’ve never seen him in here before, nor have I seen him in such a drunken state.”
She said, “I have heard from those who know him that he sometimes goes off on drunken binges.”
“He surely has tonight,” the bartender said with awe. “He drank enough at this bar to make him pass out, and he was drunk when he arrived.”
Becky glanced to the door area and saw that the four thugs who’d been sitting there were also gone now. She turned to the bartender and said, “The four who were sitting by the door have left. Do you think they may have followed him?”
The bartender shrugged. “No business of ours!”
“They might try to rob him.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “And in any case I say let him take care of himself. That’s his attitude towards other people. He’s not a kind or friendly man, I vow!”
She knew this was true but the pattern of events continued to worry her. However villainous Mark Gregg might me, he had not been in any state to defend himself when he left the tavern. The four thugs could attack and rob him with ease. They might even kill him. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
The tavern closed and Luther Crown and his wife left after asking her and the boy who did errands to close the place. She supervised the locking up, since the boy was young and she felt the responsibility was hers. When all was secure she started home. It was only a short few steps to the door of the adjoining Number Eight.
She and the youth were chatting in a friendly fashion as they strolled along the dark street when suddenly she heard a low moan.
She halted, a worried expression on her attractive face. “Where did that come from?”
The youth asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, about to resume walking, and deciding she’d imagined it. Then the voice came once more, the moan of distress louder this time.
She told the lad, “That was clearly a moan, and it came from the alley over there.”
The lad looked back at her nervously, and she hastened to tell him, “There’s no need to be afraid! No one is going to hurt you!”
“You don’t know,” the lad ventured. “There’s a rough lot here in the streets of late!” He kept close to her and his voice low.
“We can’t go on without finding out what’s wrong!”
“What about calling Mr. Crown?” the lad hung back.
“He and his missus will be in bed by now,” she said. “We must do this on our own!”
“All right,” the lad said dismally. It was quite apparent he was terrified.
She led the way across the narrow cobblestoned street and another groan sounded loudly and more clearly. She almost flinched and halted, but she knew if she showed a single sign of fear the lad at her side would turn and take to his heels. So she pressed on until she came upon the stretched-out figure of a man just inside the alley.
“Gor!” The lad said with awe as he knelt by the moaning figure. “It’s that Mr. Gregg! The rich toff!”
“Mark Gregg!” she exclaimed and knelt beside him. “At least he’s alive! They must have tackled him as soon as he left the tavern! I was afraid they might!”
“What’s to be done?” the lad asked.
“He’s bad off,” she said. “If you help me I can take him to the house. There’s an empty room and bed next to mine. We’ll see whether a doctor should be called or not.”
The lad glanced about him nervously and reminded her, “The ones who did this may still be about!”
“No,” Becky said. “They’ve done their work and taken his money! They’ll be as far from here as they can manage! Help me with him! You take him under the arms, and I’ll take his feet!”
“It’s going to be a dead weight and no easy load,” the boy grumbled but he did as she ordered.
Mark Gregg groaned several times as they moved him, which proved he was still alive. They dragged him across the street and into Number Eight. The final step was to get him in the empty room and onto the bed. Almost immediately, the battered man was sick to his stomach!
Becky held up his head so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. When the session ended, she had the lad bring a pitcher of water and basin from her room. Using this and some old cloths, she cleaned up the mess, did the best she could with his clothing, and washed his bloodstained face. There was cut above his left eye which had caused most of the bleeding, but otherwise he seemed all right.
The lad stood by sleepily and yawning said, “I want to go home!”
“You can,” she said. “I’ll need no more help.”
“Are you going to call the boss and his missus?”