Riven Isles

7 | An Upstanding Gentleman

Leaning against the beam beside us, the man with the banjo erupts into laughter, choking on his drink. He coughs, and laughs, and coughs, and laughs. "Captain Clarke!" he hoots, slapping his knee. "You're looking for Captain Hank Clarke?" He pounds his chest and swigs from his bottle, ceasing the coughing. The patronizing guffaws continue. "That's not 'im! Not even close!"

Dr. Oswald ogles the sailor, who looks to have spent some time in the pig pen himself. His faded blue naval trench coat is browned with mud. His face is filthy. There is cloth tied around his palms, and much of his long hair is loose from the pink ribbon at the back.

"I beg your pardon?"

The sailor rises, banjo dangling from one hand, bottle from the other. He separates us, prodding Simon and the fish people to one side, and the doctor and I to the other, as if too exhausted to find another place to look over the balcony. He chuckles again, then makes a sound as if he's going to puke. He doesn't.

The hand with the bottle hangs over and points. "That's Clarke Cheney. He's far from being a captain. I don't know what you'd call him. Deckhand, maybe. If even." He snorts and turns around, leaning his back and elbows on the railing. "I wouldn't hire him."

He eyes each of us in turn.

"A strange lot, you are. What's a band of misfits like yourselves doing in the West End, eh? You'll get mugged if you don't watch yourselves. Are you armed?"

"Yes," says both Dr. Oswald and Mr. Woods. They look at each other in surprise, as if neither knew the other were carrying weapons. I, for one, didn't know.

The sailor laughs again. "That's cute. What are you?" He waves his bottle at the doctor, then the professor, "Some sort of medical man? A... a teacher, here, maybe? A boy scout down here?" I huff and protest, but he carries on over me. "Fish people, in dire need of freshwater by the smell of 'em... what's she got a buoy for?"

So that's what Rootwig's ball was.

"Could you point us to Captain Hank Clarke?" I ask.

"I could, but I don't feel like you'd be impressed." He studies Dr. Oswald. "You look like the leader, here. Did Marky send you?"

The doctor folds his hands over the bulb on his walking stick. "We received a recommendation from the harbormaster."

The man spits over his shoulder and moseys towards the crowded dance floor. "Ha! Marky doesn't recommend me to anyone, that much I know. I'm a last resort!" He glances back, cooing. "What happened, doc, did Marky run out of captains for you? Pity. I think if he recommended one Hank Clarke, he would have also recommended you send a letter. At least I get to decide what impression to make, that way. Too late now! Like what you see, gents?"

With another laugh, he disappears into the bustle of awful dancers.

"Wait!" cries Dr. Oswald, starting after.

Simon simply stares. As do I.

The doctor doesn't get far before he comes back to us, flustered. We blink at each other, and open and close our mouths like fish.

"That was him. That was our man," Dr. Oswald whispers in disbelief. "And now I've lost him."

Simon swallows and nervously strokes the spine of his book. "How did he know who we were? He said I was a teacher, and you were a medical man, and he was... spot on."

"Yeah, but he also said I was a boy scout, so I'd say he was just taking guesses," I point out.

Simon prods his round specs up his nose. "You look the part."