The Last Geomancer

Scene 7: Jack and Howel Go Aboard

Howel shook Jack’s knee, as if rousing a sleeper. “This is it, Jack. This is the Millbay Road station. We’re in Plymouth, Jack, come on, let’s go.” He stood, having pulled his suitcase out from under the seat already.

Jack roused a bit more slowly, swinging his basket out from under the bench cautiously, keeping an eye on the space around him. Once he had it settled on his back, he followed Howel down the aisle, down the fold-out step and onto the arrival platform. The ticket platform, where he’d barely noticed the railway officials coming on board to check everyone’s tickets before allowing the train into the station, lay a hundred yards back up the track. He kept moving, partly to keep up with Howel, and partly because everyone else did and it was just easier. Squinting through the smoke rolling through the shed, its low, overall roof trapping the clouds of smoke and steam, Jack couldn’t make out the signage.

Howel had no such difficulty navigating, but then he was from Truro, and used to taking the train, even if only for a few stops one way or the other, and knew where to look.

“To the right, here, Jack, this is to street.” Howel waved a hand, took a step in the indicated direction, continued when Jack followed, still a bit bleary-eyed and unsettled. Together, the two young men merged with the outbound traffic, passed through the archway, and came out onto the street and face to face with a brand new castle.

It had to at least be a manor house, a town dwelling for someone with a title and lands out in the surrounding countryside. An impressive six stories of brick rose above the cobblestone pavement, with a slate roof trimmed in shiny new lead, and a miniature lighthouse atop the corner with an actual light in the cupola. Howel didn’t realize he’d stopped to gawk like a goose until an old man behind him said, “Duke of Cornwall hotel, rooms by the night or week for them what’s got the coin. Which ain’t us, and ain’t gonna be if you don’t get your arse into motion and out of my way.”

Howel jumped, grabbed Jack and pulled him along, quickly, off down Millbay with the rest of the passengers, mostly men, mostly older than them. At the first traffic circle, Citadel and Hoe Roads Howel noted, closing his eyes for a moment to bring up the map he’d studied in his head, Jack stopped, sniffed the air. Frowned. Sniffed again. Turned his head a bit west and said, “That way”.

Howel thought for a moment. Jack filled the silence. “I can smell it. Salt air and dockside. There’s a congeries of rotten fish, old tar baking in the sun, wood wet underneath and sun baked on top, too many men in need of a bath now they’ve brought the catch in, and just the general pong you get in a British port regardless of location. They flush the bilges out at sea, but the valves leak, you know, and there’s, well, you don’t want to fall in the water in the harbor. God forbid you should swallow a mouthful. If you’re unlucky, you’ll live to regret it.”

Howel stared at Jack in amazement. “That’s really, um, picturesque?” he said hesitantly. “Really quite an amazing bit of detail, perhaps a little too much?” He looked a little greenish.

Now it was Jack’s turn to laugh. “The city boy and train expert hasn’t got sea legs!” he crowed. He took his turn tugging at Howel’s sleeve. “Come along. I can find the ship just with my nose.” He laughed again at Howel’s wince, not unkindly, and assured the young man, “You get used to it. You get used to a lot at sea.”

They strolled off down the road Jack indicated, coming soon to another, larger traffic circle. Strolling vendors, jugglers, buskers, chestnut-cart peddlers, fish fryers, all plied their trade in and among and around the crowds surging through the great stone circle. A few wagons and carriages wended their slow way through the lanes held for horse-drawn traffic. Children, most of whom looked to be around ten to twelve, ran about with brooms and shovels and rakes, cleaning up the street and accepting pennies from the folk with the nice shoes who didn’t want to get them mucked up and paid for the privilege.

“We’ve gone a good block,” Howel observed, taking a moment to find a spot by a railing out of the traffic flow, where he and Jack could take a moment and get their bearings. “That ought to be far enough to speak with a peddler. We can get your tobacco and confirmation of the directions to the ship at the same time. The ones right by the station tend to charge more and be in too much of a hurry to talk.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, made as if to elbow Howel in the ribs, held his swing with exaggerated effort. “Don’t trust a harbor boy’s nose?”

Howel shrugged. “I’m sure you know your way around any port in Cornwall. But this is Plymouth, Jack, and you’re just now getting your focus back. And you did want to get a bit of tobacco to take on board.”

“Fair enough.” Jack shrugged. “You want to take your own sighting and compare, I’m good with that.”

Howel tugged at Jack’s sleeve to redirect his attention. “That one over there, the one selling the man in the purple coat a pack of cigars.” He headed out to intercept the peddler, an older man with two coats layered over his weskit and a shoulder-strap tray. Jack followed along, pulling out a shilling, having a bit of money about his person here and there for necessities along the way, just not as small as copper.

“Here, sir,” Howel addressed the peddler, raising a hand to attract the man’s attention.

The peddler gave a comical double-take, glancing about himself in some confusion, then blinked, stared at Howel for an instant, and pointed to his own chest. “You mean me? I heard you say sir, I thought me Da was around!” He laughed at his own creaky joke. Behind the ready grin, though, his eye, sharp as a raven’s, quick as a shrike, had picked over Howel and Jack and found them interesting, having potential. These could be customers. Young men heading out to sea might be ready to spend their last coin before boarding. That was worth investing a bit of patter.

“I’d thought about a penn’orth of tobacco,” Jack mused reflectively, holding the shilling twixt index and middle finger and tapping his lower lip with the coin’s edge. “But I find myself in want of a tinderbox…”

The man struck a theatrical pose, held up a hand to halt further complaint. “Say no more!” With a few quick flourishes he whisked items out of three different pockets, and presented the assembly.

“Travel size tinderbox with flint, steel, and a scraper to whittle shavings with. Leather pouch large enough to hold the tinderbox, a pipe, and a fair amount of tobacco. Enough Dutch-cured tobacco, rough cut, to fill the space left in the pouch after tinderbox and the young man’s pipe, I presume you have one?” He paused, again going for comical by cocking his head quizzically like a dog.

Jack held up the sought-after item briefly, then tucked the pipe back into his shirt pocket. “I’ll hold this myself if you don’t mind, although I won’t fault you for your estimate of the space it might take up.”

The peddler shook his head and waved off the cloud attempting to gather over the deal. “Much appreciate your trust and your faith, sir, much appreciated indeed.” He dropped the tinderbox into the pouch, filled it most of the rest of the way with tobacco from a much larger bag that had its own pocket inside the second coat, paused, glanced up from the pouch to Jack as a question. Jack nodded his approval of the man’s fill of the pouch, and the peddler tucked away the supplies, closed the pouch and tied its thong, and gave it over to Jack in return for the promised and displayed coin.

“A pleasure, sir, a pleasure,” the old man intoned as he made the coin vanish into an inner pocket somewhere in the layers. “Would there be anything else I might be able to assist with?”

“Directions to the John Lawrence?” Howel asked.

The peddler made a snap decision that Howel might yet spend coin of his own. “You’re not crew, not even the greenest of recruits,” he pronounced, looking them over, taking in their well kept but slightly shabby workman’s clothing, the basket Jack carried, the suitcase that was about to cross its first border in all its long life.

“You’ve got the look of young men off to seek your fortune.” He turned sharply, flung out an arm, gaze following his pointing hand. “You’ll be wanting the steerage boarding. Go straight on up to where the circle goes round with Martin, then follow Martin west, and just look for the masts. She’s the biggest ship in port today. Be real hard to miss her.” He turned back, and gave Howel an expectant look. Howel, thankfully, did not disappoint, and gave the man tuppence for a spare box of lucifers before saying thank you and leading Jack off along the indicated route.

“Bit anxious?” Jack asked. “They haven’t blown the boarding whistle yet.” He glanced up at the clock on the front of a Bank of England branch - he was truly in the land of the Empire, no question about that - and nodded in the direction of their march. “And we’re headed, I believe it’s worth noting, in the direction I’d originally indicated.”

“So logged, aye aye, captain!” Howel retorted mockingly. “And no, but I wanted to get away from that sharp old codger before he convinced me I too had come this far without some trivial but indispensable item. I’ve dealt with his kind many times before.”

Jack gave Howel a slow turn of his head and a near sideways tilt to look down and back at him. “Well, look at Mister Big City Truro, the world traveler!” he announced archly.

“Seen more of it than you, water and fish don’t count!” Howel retorted, and punched Jack lightly on the shoulder. They scuffled briefly, in a friendly way, then broke apart and resumed their travels before they became a nuisance, a brief letting off of steam having been just sufficient to get them to the next waypoint.

Partway down Martin, Jack pointed, and sang out, “Funnel ahoy!”

Howel followed his gaze across the narrow bit of green between the end of the street and the harbor waters, then across to the great steamship laying to at the dock on the far side of the inlet. “I make it two blocks past the north,” he called ahead to Jack, pantomiming a spyglass. “Then port to take on a new heading to the south with the docks in sight from there. What say you, old sea dog?”

Jack pantomimed spitting a quid over the gunwale, and gave a slow nod. “You’ve called it fair on, first mate. We’ve got our course, let’s make what sail we can. Given the harbor traffic, a fair bit of tacking may be at hand.” He resettled the basket on his back, made sure the pouch was tucked away in a pocket near the pipe, and strode off down the last bit of street, to where it gave way to a cobblestone path around to the north of the inlet. Howel followed along, minding the suitcase and occasionally switching it to the other hand to give one a rest.

The path went on round to the top end of the docks, where water ran out and land truly began. There, the path became the pedestrian way alongside a macadam street down past the Royal Marines barracks. Jack paused there a moment, solemn, regarding the military establishment and the men on guard at the gate.

“Jack?” Howel asked, after a moment.

Jack shook his head to clear the cobwebs, turned away. “Reminded of a friend,” he said as they strode away, further down toward the pier where the SS John Lawrence was boarding and loading. Cranes and derricks could be seen in action even at this distance, taking great loads of cargo and supplies up into the ship at a single go.

“Someone who joined up?” Howel prompted, after a step or two.

“Goran, his name is. One of me mates back in Forcette, him and Docco and Willy. Goran took the Queen’s shilling, but he’s Army, not Marines.” Jack remained glum.

Howel let it ride for a few steps, considered, nodded understanding. He maintained a companionable silence the rest of the way to the gate.

There, a bored-looking young man in a sailor’s uniform checked tickets, routing people in various directions. The well-dressed older couple two ahead of Jack and Howel had three porters sweating under all their luggage. The sailor made a couple of tick marks in a column on a clipboard, and pointed them to the fancy metal stairway leading to the upper deck. “Second class, up the gangway, follow the officer, someone will meet you at the top and guide you to your cabin.”

Next were a pair of older men in rough but well maintained workmen’s clothing. They garbled out something in a thick Geordie accent and waved papers at the sailor.

“Excuse me?” The sailor looked up from his clipboard, took the proffered sheaf, began going through it. “Where’s - here’s your ticket, steerage, but it’s not approved.” He glanced up. “Where’s your doctor’s release?”

More Geordie garbling. One of the men waved his arms, but whether to pantomime something meaningful to the conversation or just out of frustration, nobody could tell.

Another sailor jogged up. “Mate wants to know what the hold-up is, we still have to board all these people to make the evening tide.”

The gate sailor glanced his way with the look of someone who’s found a handy inbox to receive a stack of unwanted work. He shoved the papers at the new arrival, who blinked uncertainly and took them out of reflex.

“Take these two,” the gate guard informed the confused sailor, indicating the two Geordies, “to the line office, and find a translator or get them drunk enough they can speak English.” He waved the Geordies into their new guide’s company and shooed the lot of them off with a wave of his clipboard. “Gwan then, I’ve got work to do here.”

He turned his attention to Jack and Howel. “Tickets,” he said, in the tone of a top sergeant demanding a locker be opened for inspection and it bloody well best be in proper order.

Howel extended his, on top of the releases and guarantees and such from the Tiparra Mining Company. The sailor flipped through the papers briefly, made a tick mark on the clipboard, and handed the papers back. He took Jack’s without a word and repeated the performance. On giving those back, he jerked a thumb at the line of people winding their way across the docks between the stacks of cargo being loaded. They carried their own luggage, such as it was, and worked their way up a ramp to a low-deck hatch in the ship’s side.

“Steerage, follow the line. Next!”

Jack and Howel went the indicated direction, joined the line, shuffled their way across the dock and up the ramp.

“This feel familiar, sea dog?” Howel asked out of boredom halfway along the ramp. The line had come to a dead stop while it took all the members of a family to get their trunk turned round in the bend at the top and through the hatchway.

Jack shook his head. “Not really. I’m used to fishing boats, one mast, maybe a spanker, one funnel. Supplies get heaved up over the gun’l. You’re aboard for maybe a week at most, and that only if you’re going way out to sea. This is going to be our home for the next three months.” He leaned over and patted the hull of the ship, rising like a town wall next to the ramp.

Then they’d reached the top, and there was a bored young crewman standing there waving people through. “Follow the line,” he kept repeating. “Step lively now, follow the line, the next man will give you directions. Move along, people.” He switched to French, and continued the spiel.

Jack and Howel followed the line of passengers, some of them looking very bewildered indeed in the wood and steel confines of the belly of the John Lawrence. They reached an intersection with the main fore-aft passage, and another crewman. “That way, keep moving, look for the next crewman, he will show you to your accomodation. Hurry along, mind your head, watch the pipes above.” He repeated the message in Greek as the two young men moved up the passage and out of earshot.

They passed an open hatchway that looked into a large communal chamber, a row of tables with benches to either side all bolted to the deck and running down the middle. Berths like a Pullman car, two bunks over and under running longways along the wall, lined both sides. A great many people worked at sorting out who had which bunk, and finding places to put their belongings. They passed another, similarly occupied, and then were waved into a third by a crewman blocking the passage and counting off passengers. Jack and Howel abruptly found themselves in a room full of strangers that were going to be far too close neighbors for a quarter year.