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Mr. Tiller opened his cabin door angrily to silence the frantic loud knocking upon it.
“Oy!” he hissed. “The lad’s almost down for a nap! Cut your fuckin’ racket! Sir,” he added half-heartedly. Weatherdecker grabbed the boatswain by the front of his shirt.
“Listen here,” said the captain, pulling him close, “there’re two guardsmen at the plank wantin’ onboard to look for the baby. I’m lettin’ ‘em on so they don’t find nothin’ outta place. Are you followin’?”
Tiller felt his heart skip.
“The police? But if…f-for the lad? What do we do?”
“‘We’ don’t do nothin’. ‘I’ show ‘em round the ship, the perfectly normal ship, an’ ‘you’ take that kid an’ you hide him. Anywhere. Keep him outta sight and outta earshot. If he starts cryin’, jam summat down his throat.” The Captain’s grip tightened, and he leaned in closer. “You fuck this up an’ we’re off to the clink together, unnerstand?”
Mr. Tiller did, though he didn’t get a chance to say so. Weatherdecker shoved him back into the cabin and stalked away towards the plank. After a moment of frantic thought, Tiller closed the door, and began to think calmly instead. They could look anywhere…anywhere a baby could go…
He looked to the boy, almost asleep on the cot. Mr. Tiggles was held tightly in his fist. With any luck, he would stay sleepy. Tiller gathered the boy carefully into his arms.
Officers Dunwhaite and Edison looked up as they heard boots on the deck. Captain Weatherdecker appeared at the railing, smiling broadly, and descended the plank towards them.
“Good afternoon, officers! A good afternoon indeed. How’s the day find you?” He shook both of their hands. Before they could reply, he said: “I’m Captain Weatherdecker, pleased to meet you both!”
“Likewise, Captain,” said Officer Dunwhaite. “We apologize for the intrusion, though, it is an important business that brings us here.” In an effort to dot his i’s and cross his t’s, he flashed his badge again. “We’re investigating the disappearance of a young child, and we have reason to believe he may be aboard this vessel.”
“Oh, heavens,” sighed Weatherdecker, “that’s awful! Please, lads, come aboard. Take all the time you want!”
He was smart enough to notice the corporals exchange a quick look, but not smart enough to understand entirely what it meant.
“You have no objections, Captain? We don’t wish to disturb your crew.”
“No, you’re not! Not at all. Always happy to help the boys in brass!” He stepped aside, and gestured towards the plank. “Please, make yourselves right at home!”
The look was traded once more, a bit longer this time. Then, Dunwhaite led his fellow up the plank, their cloaks bobbing in unison. Weatherdecker followed them up. Mr. Airedale was waiting at the top, and nodded politely at them as they passed.
Edison was clearly the eyes and ears. He looked around the deck, masts, railing, assorted crew, horizon, barrels, seagulls, flags, and various other riggings, ears perked for any strange sounds. Dunwhaite was the voice and the brain. His own gaze was set strictly upon the Captain.
“Have you yourself seen any sign of a child on board, sir?”
Weatherdecker pretended to reflect upon this.
“No, can’t say I have, officer, can’t say I have.”
“Nothing strange? Any odd behaviour among the crew?” Dunwhaite began a slow saunter across the deck, following Edison’s seemingly random wander. The captain kept up with the corporal; the first mate hovered at a polite distance.
“Ah, none that comes to mind,” chirped Weatherdecker. “Been fairly quiet ‘round here lately, bein’ honest.”
The guardsmen’s neverending scan of the deck made him want to punch someone, preferably Dunwhaite.
“In what capacity does this ship serve, captain?”
“The ship? Why, a merchant vessel. We’re merchants, the crew and I. Traders. Freighters, if you like.”
“Merchants?” said the corporal. “This appears to be a warship, sir, on first glance…”
“She would, officer, because she was! Off to be scrapped by the navy, sir. Bought her for a song to start my, uh, merchanting business. Fixed her up ourselves, the crew and I.”
“Did you? How nice,” said Dunwhaite. “Captain, has this vessel recently called at Port Victor?”
Weatherdecker forced his jaw to unclench.
“Victor,” he mused aloud. “Port Victor…hmm…” His eyes darted over the corporal’s shoulder to where Airedale stood. Imperceptibly, the first mate nodded.
“Ah, yes! Indeed it did, officer. Yes, we stopped in a couple of weeks ago. Just for a bit of a holiday, eh? Just a day for the lads to have some fun.”
“And you noticed nothing odd among the crew after you departed?”
“No, not that comes to mind. Save a bit more beer around, eh?”
Dunwhaite smiled tersely. “Quite so.” He looked to his constable, who came to his side without a word. “Captain, would you mind if we had a look around the ship? We will do our best not to disturb the crew.”
Another tiny nod from Airedale over Dunwhaite’s shoulder.
“Why, certainly!” beamed Weatherdecker. “Take all the time you like, gents. Would you like me to show you ‘round?”
Tiller opened the door from the officer’s cabins as slowly as he dared. He flinched as he saw the two cloaked guardsmen, being talked to by an animated Captain Weatherdecker. Mr. Airedale stood a bit behind, keeping calm enough for the both of them. The boatswain took a deep breath, and strode out onto the deck. He had a bundle of sailcloth strapped into a sling on his back, a belt of tools around his waist.
Mr. Airedale immediately fixed him with a piercing look; had he been a cat, his ears would have been flat on his head. He was quick enough not to let the officers notice him staring over their shoulders. Weatherdecker, however, glared at him like a dog pointing out a rabbit in the heather. Mr. Tiller kept on for the ladder at the mainmast, paying the four men no mind.
“Mr. Tiller,” growled the captain stiffly, “what do you think you’re doin’?”
Tiller paused with both hands and one foot on the ladder. Calmly, he addressed his captain, under the stare of the two guardsmen.
“Just finished repair on the topgallant staysail, sir. Off to rig it before we leave. Sorry to’ve kept it so late.” He spoke as meekly and quietly as possible. He looked to the officers, looking at him. If they were suspicious, they didn’t show it. “There a problem, sir?” he asked innocently.
Mr. Airedale’s cat-worthy look returned. Weatherdecker’s fists tightened. Corporal Dunwhaite, ever the opportunist, spoke up before the Captain could.
“No problem, I assure you, Mr….Tiller, was it?”
“Yessir. That’s me.”
“Which position do you hold on this ship, Mr. Tiller?”
“Boatswain, sir. Head of the deck crew.”
Not an iota of nerve shone through. He shifted the sailcloth on his back a bit, never breaking eye contact with Dunwhaite.
“I see. Mr. Tiller, are you aware of any children having been aboard this vessel?”
Tiller scrunched his nose. “Children, sir? Heavens no, sir. No place for children at sea. Most certainly not in the riggin’, sir.”
“Quite so,” said Dunwhaite. He held that innocent gaze for a moment longer. Nothing. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Tiller. Please, don’t let us detain you any longer.”
“Not at all, officers.” He looked to his captain. “Have that staysail up in a wink, sir. Sorry for the delay, sir.”
He climbed the ladder with the grace and speed of a squirrel, disappearing in a flash. With that, he vanished from the officer’s minds.
He climbed and climbed, until they were the size of toy soldiers below. He pulled himself up onto the fighting top, out of sight as well as mind, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. In a scramble, he slung the bundled sail off his back, into his arms, and carefully unfolded it. The boy squinted up at him, sleepily, Mr. Tiggles tucked tight to his chest. Tiller hugged the bundle close, pressing his back against the mast.
Let them search all they wanted.
They searched the ship from one end to the other. In reality, Dunwhaite knew he and his constable were as likely to find the child as to find a live mermaid. If there was anything less than legal happening aboard, it had been safely hidden away. Had Weatherdecker’s crew been in the habit of getting caught they would not have earned their reputation. Still, the corporal considered this visit a success. Weatherdecker had been radiating tension the entire time. Once the captain’s nervousness turned to annoyance, Dunwhaite called it quits. Well…mostly quits. There was one last matter to see to in the name of justice.
“I must thank you for your cooperation in this matter, sirs,” said Dunwhaite, as he and Edison were escorted to the plank. “We truly appreciate your patience. I hope we did not intrude.”
“Not at all!” insisted Weatherdecker, with his best attempt at a disarming grin. “Sorry we weren’t any help. Hope you find the tot!”
Dunwhaite’s disarming smile was much better. “I believe we shall, Captain.” He reached into his coat and removed a notebook. “Pen, Edison.” The constable produced a fountain pen seemingly from magic and handed to his superior.
“I hate to bring this up,” said Dunwhaite, “after such a pleasant visit, but I’m afraid I must. I could not help noticing that this vessel’s trailboard does not bear a name nor a shipyard’s number, captain. To whom is it registered?”
“Oh, that!” said Weatherdecker. “I’ve got the registry, officer, no worries there. Just haven’t had a mo to get the name up, that’s all. Busy life it is, merchanting.”
“Certainly, captain. May I see the registry papers?”
The tension returned. He watched Weatherdecker’s hands curl into fists.
“Certainly,” said the captain, stiffly. “Mr. Airedale, would you be so kind?”
The first mate turned and glided away to the officer’s cabins without a moment’s hesitation.
Mr. Tiller held on tightly to the rigging as the two watchmen chatted at the plank with Weatherdecker. In between keeping the lad quiet, and thinking his deeply troubled thoughts, he barely had the mind to do so.
The boy was slung to his back in the makeshift carrier of wrapped canvas, gripping his shoulders as he enjoyed the view from the top. Every squeal at the sight of a seagull, every giggle at the dizzying height was quickly shushed by a wiggle of Mr. Tiggles.
“Please, lad,” whispered Tiller, “come on, now…it’s quiet time.”
Why did it have to be, he wondered. Why was he hiding? The Captain had told him to, but, the bronze were here to take the boy home. He could send the kid on his way, safe and sound. He would have to be on his way too, if Weatherdecker caught him giving up the game.
A tiny hand seized his red kerchief and pulled it smoothly off his head. Tiller looked over his shoulder to see the boy draping it over his own face.
“Ba!” declared the tiny pirate. He giggled. “Dah dah dah dah…” He pulled it back further, hanging loose from his curls, and giggled again as he caught Tiller’s eye. “Ba! Tir! Tir Tir! Baaa!”
Tiller raised a finger to his smiling lips. “Shh! Keep the noise down, y’little bugger.”
As he watched the boy chewing on his kerchief, he wondered some more. The boy would go back to his parents, Weatherdecker would send him away, if he didn’t kill him first. If they both didn’t end up in jail. But, after that, he could find work on another ship. It would only be a matter of…
The lad tugged on his short sandy hair. “Tir!” he proclaimed. “Tir!” The kerchief was mushed against the back of his head. Tiller accepted it over his shoulder with a soft laugh.
He could find work on another ship, he reasoned. A stranger among a crew. Alone. Back to the old times. Being the small guy, the soft-hearted one that nobody would notice gone. He would be replaced and no one would bat an eye. None of the crew, anyway…
“Tir! Tir, Tir. Ba.”
The lad started drumming his shoulderblades. Mr. Tiller smiled, looked back at him, and stayed silent.
Dunwhaite took his slow, careful time copying the details from the ship’s papers into his notebook, savouring the anxiety radiating off the captain. He relished each pang of fear as he asked perfectly innocent questions.
“We’re quite a long way from Taercanon, captain. You have not transferred the registry to the islands?”
“Like I said,” said Weatherdecker, “ain’t had the time. What with all the merchanting.”
Dunwhaite looked at the papers in his hand, paused, then directed a cocked eyebrow at the captain.
“How long ago did you purchase this vessel, captain?”
“Uh, ten years or so…”
“You have not found the time for a registry transfer in ten years?”
“Well, I ain’t been a merchant that whole time, y’see. Only started that a few years ago.”
Behind him, Mr. Airedale inhaled slowly through his nose, which was his equivalent of an exasperated sigh.
“What did you do before that, Captain?”
“Oh, well, I mean, I weren’t a merchant in the islands. Traded on the mainland coast before that, mostly.”
“I see,” said Dunwhaite. “As the vessel spends most of its time in Moonfall waters, sir, I suggest you see to a transfer as soon as possible. It makes paperwork easier.”
Weatherdecker squinted sideways at the guardsman. “What makes you think we’re mostly in the Moonfalls?”
Dunwhaite gave him a pleasant smile as he handed back the papers. “We pay attention, my fellow officers and I. We would be doing a disservice if we did not know what our citizens got up to in their spare time.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Weatherdecker took the papers in his hands. He had locked eyes with Dunwhaite, frowning. The officer tucked his notebook away without blinking.
“I would suggest you choose a name as soon as possible and stick to it,” said the corporal. “Otherwise, it might look…suspicious.” He nodded to Airedale, and tipped his hat to Weatherdecker. “Gents,” he said to them. “Edison?”
His corporal followed him dutifully down the plank. Neither looked back. When they were out of earshot, Airedale turned to his captain, still holding the papers and still scowling.
“Are you quite pleased with yourself, Richard?”
“They didn’t find anything,” snapped Weatherdecker.
“They were looking,” said Airedale firmly. “That is plenty.”
“Fuck off,” growled the captain. He stalked away, muttering to himself. Airedale didn’t bother to listen in. He looked back at the plank; a figure on the dock caught his eye. He looked up at a man in a black cloak, leaning against a piling opposite the ship. He was watching the guardsmen go on their way, mild curiosity on his granite face. There was a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm.
Airedale headed straight for the man in black, his long strides thumping on the plank. The man’s curiosity turned on him as he approached.
“You rubbin’ elbows with the bronze, now, Tim?” said Mr. McCrea. On the surface, it might have been mistaken for a casual conversation starter.
“I know you have to pass this along,” said Airedale. “It is not my fault. The reason they were here is nothing to do with me. You will have to speak to Richard if you want the story.”
“Sure thing, kid.” Mr. McCrea held out the book-shaped parcel. Mr. Airedale ignored his little term of endearment and swiftly tucked it under his own arm. The instant this was done, Mr. McCrea stood straight, tipped his top hat, and started up the dock.
“Stay outta trouble, now,” were his departing words. Mr. Airedale watched him go, hoping that could be managed.
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