cobbler’s stool, sifting through a book of Dryden, his interest fading as the light dwindled for his lantern was a poor substitute.
He would sit until the bells rang out twice more, an hour to add to the hour he had already waited and two more to add to the dozens of others he had spent over the weeks, his only comfort being the poet, the stool, and the coin for his trouble.
He lifted his head to the splash of a boat being lowered and listened, head cocked like a blind-man, to the path of the oars as they rowed onwards. From the narrow window of the arch he could see a square of the horizon and the bowsprit of some unknown vessel that had kept him company for several days on his nightly vigil.
His ears pricked up and his book slapped shut as the sound of the oars came closer to the sanctity of his storm drain rather than diverting towards the promise of the welcoming harbour.
He brushed off the hour of damp and salt and scraped his fingers through his greying hair as he rose from the stool and brought his light to the mouth of his cave and the cold of the night.
With a sweep of the lantern he lowered a rope ladder and grasped the gloved hand that reached out to him. The purple brocade doublet brushed past the black figure of Ignatius without a word and crouched in the tunnel awaiting his entourage.
The giant struggled up next and Ignatius was almost dragged to the sea by the lump of a hand that steadied itself around his forearm, and the tunnel seemed to shrink as his bulk huddled with them in the dark.
The light from the lantern rose with the breaths of the giant and lit the final face rising past the edge of the storm drain. Ignatius looked down at the pale drawn features with the silver and red beard and dragged the sagging six-foot-plus frame into the drain like a catch of fish.
‘Can he walk?’ Ignatius whispered to the dark, hearing the grey body gasping and sucking at the damp air.
‘He can crawl,’ Valentim Mendes replied and took to his feet along the low tunnel. Ignatius plucked up the lantern and slapped past the grey face paying it no more mind. Hib folded himself like a concertina and hauled the sunken shoulders into the blackness.
Ignatius kicked back the rug over the hatch that led to the harbour. The night was without. Good men had returned to their hearths while the bad plotted in taverns and Ignatius withdrew to his maple commode for liquid comfort before the rattle of manacles drew him back to the party within his study. A sound unwelcome. An iron chink that unsettled the comfort of his sanctum.
‘Are those chains absolutely necessary, Governor Mendes?’ He poured three guildive rums. ‘That sound belongs to the slave quarter.’
Valentim took a seat, lifting his scabbard through the arm and resting his porcelain and gloved hand on the pommel.
‘He feels better that way. Trust me on that.’
Ignatius turned and passed him a goblet. A wet sniff from the putrid head of Peter Sam spoilt the vapours of Ignatius’ crystal glass. ‘I have a room for him, bar-locked and secure. Perhaps it is better for him to retire than listen to our conversation.’
‘Perhaps.’ Valentim raised a hand to Hib Gow without a word and the Scotsman took his eyes from the glass still waiting on the commode to tug at the chain between Peter Sam’s wrists.
Ignatius’s young servant tried not to look at Peter Sam’s eyes as he held open the passage door, but his eyes alighted on the chains as they rattled past and he bowed and followed, closing the door as softly as he could.
‘So, Ignatius,’ Valentim sipped his rum with a grimace. ‘We are alone. Tell me how we progress? What of my revenge?’
Ignatius moved to his desk. ‘You mean what of the letters? The arcanum of porcelain, Governor?’
Valentim shrugged and angled his glass, his eyes lowered to watch the swirling of the cane spirit.
Ignatius sat and bided his time. ‘How do you find Hib’s company, governor? He is quite a find is he not?’
‘He is an animal,’ Valentim said. ‘Even for an executioner. Where did you locate such a foul creature?’
‘One of Tyburn’s best I assure you. Unfortunately he lost favour some years ago. The English were mad for Jacobites, and a Presbyterian Scotsman was not to be trusted. It was most opportune