Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery John Pilkington (story reading .TXT) 📖

To which, the answer came as something of a shock. ‘There’s a fellow going back to Purton with us. A foreigner name of Yakup, or so I’m told.’

With that the captain left me. I made my way to the stern, ducked beneath the awning and found a place to stow my pack. I then sat down heavily against the gunwale, with grim forebodings about the voyage ahead.

Captain Darrett’s habitual gloom, I found, was catching.

***

The voyage out of Bristol, down the Avon and out into the Severn was uneventful enough. I had spent a tolerable night under the awning with Darrett’s crewmen, who left me in peace. The following day I had been ashore to eat and drink, paying discreet attention to the unloading of the Last Hope, which proceeded apace. I did not stay to look for the porters; I knew enough about where at least a part of the ordnance from both trows was going. Nor did I question Darrett further, for I discovered he knew little of the Mountfords’ business and cared even less. Once on the water, I was far more concerned with keeping an eye on my unwelcome fellow-passenger.

From the very start, Yakup ignored me. While I kept to the stern, or moved about the deck betimes, he remained seated in the prow of the vessel: a silent figure, gazing ahead. I was non-plussed as to why the Turk was travelling with us, having assumed he was leaving England with the cannons. And yet, the Dutch merchantman was bound for Hamburg, not Constantinople… here was a mystery that still confounded me.

Yakup and Darrett did not appear to know each other, and rarely spoke; nor did the crew appear to like the man. How we were all supposed to spend the night together, crammed beneath the awning, I could not imagine; hence I had already resolved to sleep on deck once again, as I had done aboard the Lady Ann. At least I could admire the Great Comet, still burning its way across the night sky. How long was it since I had first seen it, in the garden at Thirldon… a fortnight?

But by the afternoon I was restless. Being unladen, the trow moved swiftly enough upstream on a south-west breeze, and the following day we would be docking at Purton, yet my discomfort only increased. There was silence aboard the Last Hope, unlike that on the Lady Ann with the ill-tempered Spry bawling at his men. Captain Darrett was generally on deck, pointing his hangdog features ahead as we forged upriver.

Slowly the Severn narrowed, both banks now visible as the sun began to fall. I ate supper with the crewmen, sharing a pie I had bought in Bristol; and there was a small keg of beer in the stern, which was most welcome. Having stated my intention of sleeping on deck, I comforted myself with the thought that this night would be the last I ever spent on a boat - of any sort, anywhere. Hence, by the time dusk came and we dropped anchor close to the shoreline, I was in better spirits, my only concern being that it would not rain.

It did not, but it would have made little difference if it had. For the events of that night and what came after will remain with me, I believe, for the rest of my days.

The water was calm enough; just a light swell, which I had almost grown used to. All was quiet under the canopy at the stern, just an occasional snore which was almost reassuring. For a while I lay on my back under a blanket loaned by the crew, contemplating the heavens and, as always, finding my thoughts drifting homeward. But I was forced to stay those: worries about Thirldon threatened to overwhelm me, and could leave me unable to sleep. Instead I thought on my quest, now somewhat mudded, to uncover what had happened to Richard Mountford’s lamented brother. Thus far, I realised, I had found no evidence of treachery: only rumours and evasion, and a tangled tale of clandestine shipments of gunnery. I thought briefly of Tobias Russell and the Willets - and poor Thomas Peck. How much longer I should spend in Lydney, I did not know; I was eager to return home to find out whether my son-in-law George had made any progress in London.

I believe those were my last thoughts before I drifted off to sleep… only to wake with a jerk, my senses jangling.

To this day, I know not how I avoided the blow. Some instinct from the time of my restless youth, perhaps - or more likely I had heard a creak of boards. All I can say is that as I awoke I snapped my head aside, dimly aware of a shape looming over me - and heard a loud thud as something struck the timbers an inch from my neck. The next moment my hand flew out to grasp the arm that went up, ready to strike again – and then I was embroiled in a struggle for my very life. For a man of any age, it would have been hard enough - for one of my years, it was desperate.

Gasping aloud, I was forced to use all my strength just to keep my assailant from getting a hand about my throat - let alone using the billet he wielded. But this soon dropped to the deck, to be replaced by something deadlier. In the dim moonlight, I caught the flash of a blade – and on a sudden I was shouting for aid while I gripped the man’s wrist, struggling to avoid being impaled. The dagger was long, its point only inches from my neck – and by now, I was in no doubt who was trying to kill me.

‘Darrett!’ I yelled.