The Isis Knot (2 page)

A sea of angry, bloody men screamed and fought and surged all around. Jem was somewhere inside it, and Riley was trying to use the confusion to take back what William had stopped five months ago.

That was not going to happen.

William pushed deeper into the aisle and quickly ducked an errant blow. One convict had ripped apart his berth and was using a broken timber to destroy another man’s bed, the insistent cracking sound adding a beat to the riot. William shoved aside the vandal and pressed on. Where was Jem? He couldn’t see anything except sweat and skin. Then two grimacing men, their hands twisted in each other’s shirts, tottered out of his path and he finally saw Jem.

The lad had wedged himself into a safe spot underneath the steep steps leading up to the main deck. The hatch above was closed and locked, and Jem clung to those steps as though they were a floating piece of debris in a cyclone. His legs were tucked up against his chest, his bony arms wrapped around a staircase tread. His prominent eyes bulged wider than usual. But he was safe.

Stay there
, William thought.
Maybe Riley won’t see—

But Riley did. In the other aisle, he halted suddenly and slapped an arm across the chest of one of his mollies. The Irishman’s stillness within the storm of bodies was apparent and awful. His fists opened and closed at his sides. He adjusted his cock through his trousers.

William’s dread died. In its place sprouted a rage and determination he hadn’t felt since he’d first stood between Riley and Jem all those months ago.

The big Irishman elbowed convicts aside, heading for his prey. Riley was closer to Jem, and Riley wore no ankle weight. William charged forward, too, the weight making his steps uneven and agonizingly slow. His knuckles tingled in anticipation. He could feel the curl of his own lip, the pound of his own blood. He would saw off his own leg and beat Riley with his shackled foot before he allowed Jem to be attacked again.

What seemed like a million brawling convicts stood in William’s way, and he had to shove and punch his way free from the twisted knot. At last he burst into a pocket of open space before the steps. Dear God. Riley had gotten to Jem.

The Irishman had shoved Jem face first over a tread in the steps, his arse stuck up in the air. Jem’s narrow torso dangled helplessly over the other side. Riley’s two mollies were holding his arms and…grinning.

Riley planted one hand on Jem’s back and fumbled with the rope holding up his trousers with the other. William couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight for the wrath that coursed through him. Suddenly there was no more weight on his ankle, nothing at all holding him back. He lunged for Riley before the Irishman even knew William was there. His tight fist smashed into Riley’s snarling, despicable face.

Sweet Lord, but it felt glorious. The sound of flesh meeting bone, the sight of blood as it burst from Riley’s nose, the surprise and flash of fear in Riley’s eyes, even the pain that shuddered from William’s fist to his elbow. How he’d missed this. This—
this—
was the fighting he loved. One on one. For a purpose.

Riley stumbled backward, lost his footing. His arse struck the floor and his head snapped back against a post.

William stood over him, baring his teeth. “You’re a right twisted bastard.”

Riley scrambled to his feet, rising half a head taller than William. The Irishman hissed through bloody teeth then cackled, an ugly, gurgling sound.

William fixed his stare on Riley but threw over his shoulder, “You all right, Jem?”

“Aye,” came Jem’s reply, squeaky and uneven in the face of humiliation and terror.

“Let him go, then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, William saw Riley’s mollies releasing Jem’s arms. Jem awkwardly extricated himself from the steps. In that moment, William finally noticed the dead silence in the hold, where it had been mayhem only moments earlier. He should have known this would draw an audience.

Riley shoved away from the post, his hairy fingers curling into fists. The sight of them made William’s heart thud in deeper excitement. Had he really held out from a fight for three long months?

“You knew I wouldn’t let you have him again,” William said. “Nor any other man who doesn’t want you.”

“Oh, but I wanted to let you try. The game has changed, now that we’ve arrived. You no longer rule the hold. You’re mine.” Riley glanced pointedly at Jem and licked his lips. “And then he will be, too.”

William grinned, the old cockiness coming back as easily as though it had never left. He lifted his arms, palms to the ceiling. “You won’t best me.”

“A meal on the old man!” someone shouted from the back of the onlookers.

Old man? At thirty-nine, he supposed he was, compared to the lads who surrounded him. But age meant nothing when it came to a fight.

Nearby, a young convict pulled out a sorry slab of old meat from his trouser pocket. “I’ll take that wager. My food’s on Riley.”

More bets ricocheted from port to starboard—useless items like buttons and rope and tatty cloth. The convicts pressed in, forming a tight half-moon.

Yes.
Yes
. A buzz better than opium swept through William’s body. The roar of past audiences came rushing back to him. The memories of dark cellars, fancy, heavily paneled rooms, and open-air grassy knolls, all swarming with people waving their marks, felt as fresh as if they’d happened this morning. The memories goaded him, thrilled him. He’d show them all who the old man was.

“You mad?” came another convict’s Yorkshire voice. “How could you bet on ol’ Will?”

William turned, curious to hear the answer.

It came from a man who’d somehow remained doughy and plump during the journey. His eyes met William’s as he replied, “Because of the reason why he’s in those chains. He bested two men at once in as many seconds, and then had the big, hairy bollocks to attack the quartermaster when the sailors tried to pull him off.” The man took a half step back. “And something ain’t quite right…in his eyes.”

William merely nodded, because the convict spoke the truth.

“Out of the way, Jem.” William nudged his chin toward a safe corner, and the lad scurried off.

The wagers on Riley blossomed, and he ate them up with a rotten smile.

With thumb and forefinger, William pushed his unruly blond hair off his face. He bounced on the balls of his feet, the shackle a mere feather, the lightest of tickles against his ankle. Riley snarled. Advanced. He was a large man, taken to stealing other convicts’ food when he couldn’t have his way with them, and he rushed forward with a mighty roar. The sight might have scared William if he’d had any fear left after what the Spectre had subjected him to. As it was, William was more than ready.

Riley charged straight for William’s midsection, trying to take him down by force, but William knew how to throw a punch in the face of that kind of attack. He knew how to throw two, in fact, so that was what he did. Left, right. Cheek, chin. Riley’s head flew first to one side and then snapped back on his neck. William let him recover, then got in two more hits. Ribs, chest.

With a loud crash the Irishman hit the floorboards. Simultaneous groans and cheers went up among the various audience factions.

William planted his shackled ankle in front of Riley’s face. “Get up. Get
up
.” He didn’t want to kick the man when he was down. He wanted another go at his face. Wanted to see Riley come for him again, and then watch the defeat as it blanked out his eyes.

Riley pushed laboriously to his feet, a swelling cut splitting his cheek. The blood satisfied William, but he wanted more.

One of Riley’s mollies—the shorter one with the lazy eye and the distended belly—rushed between the two fighters, taking the Irishman’s shoulders. “Don’t do it,” said the mollie. “I seen Everard fight before.”

Quiet, little man. I need this. I need to feel this. And I want Riley, not you.

Riley scoffed over his mollie’s shoulder. “So have I. Two drunk convicts are mighty opponents, aren’t they?” He pointed to William’s ankle, drawing scattered laughter.

William pointed to Riley’s busted face and laughed even louder. Riley lunged but the sallow-faced mollie pushed against his chest.

“No, no,” said the mollie, breathy with fear, “in King’s Cross. The street fights three years back. Won more than any other fellow.” He lowered his voice, as if the whole lot of convicts didn’t already have their ears and eyes trained on the fighting circle. “Said he killed a man, they did. Said he’s mad.” He even waggled a finger near his ear.

At this point, William wasn’t about to counter such a brilliant exaggeration. He’d soundly beaten his opponent that night three years ago. Later, the other man had caught a disease or had eaten something rancid or something of the sort, and had died a few days later. The rumors of him perishing at William’s hands were far more dramatic. And more to his benefit.

William threw back his shoulders and cracked his neck. “What say you, Riley? Are you frightened? Think you’ll meet the same fate as that chap?”

Riley puffed up his chest, but his eyes shifted back and forth. “Never.”

William raised his fists. “Come on, then. I have one leg tied. You have the advantage. Don’t squander it.”

“Richard,” warned the mollie.

Riley’s hand shot out to the side and caught the man’s sweaty throat in his grip.

“But…he’ll…kill…you.”

The Irishman threw the mollie to the floorboards and stared at him, running the heel of his hand down the front of his trousers. William knew who would receive the brunt of Riley’s frustration when this scene ended. Riley pulled at his scraggly, ruddy beard and scrubbed his hands through his bug-infested hair. He swiped his bloody cheek with the back of his hand, then flicked some red droplets at William.

“When I am ready,” Riley sneered, “when there is no surprise, and we both have our strength, I will take you. I will beat you. And then I will
have
you.”

Disappointment hung heavy in William’s chest. “Talk means nothing. These men want to see fists.”

A rousing shout of encouragement and agreement rose, which quickly transformed into cries of disappointment and taunts as Riley whirled, grabbed his second mollie by the back of the neck, and shoved him toward the berths near the stern. Several convicts followed him, waving their lost wagers in his face.

“Some other time, then!” William called after him with false gaiety. “We have seven years!”

The remaining convicts dispersed, the melee quelled. For now.

William found Jem, who stood near the empty berths at fore starboard. The wind had shifted, dragging the
John Barry
around its anchor so that the starboard portholes now looked out at the shore of Sydney Cove.

William slowly went to Jem, who looked as narrow as one of the posts holding up the ceiling, standing with his hands stuffed into his armpits. Jem inhaled several times, trying to speak, but each time emotion swallowed his words.

“It’s all right,” William said, careful not to touch him.

At the reassurance, Jem shuddered. His head bowed, greasy brown-gold hair swinging in front of his bulbous eyes. “I didn’t think he’d ever come for me again. He kept his distance the entire journey. Thanks to you.”

Jem so rarely spoke, but when he did, William could hear the Cockney trying to poke through carefully corrected speech. It allowed him to guess at Jem’s origins, but beyond that, the lad had revealed so little of himself. And William hadn’t asked.

He waved away the gratitude. It was what any decent man should do for another.

“This is for you.” Jem poked a bony finger into the partially ripped hem of his shirt and pulled out something shiny and round, about the size of a tuppence.

Quickly, William reached out and folded Jem’s fingers around the coin, hiding it from one hundred and forty-four pairs of greedy, thieving eyes. He jerked his chin into the lower berth, the one under the last porthole. They climbed onto the unforgiving wood slab not even rats would call a bed.

Jem unfurled his fingers again, revealing the coin. He ran a thumb over it as though it were a diamond. “I carved it while at anchor in Portsmouth. I wanted to leave it to my sister. She was the only one who ever loved me. But she ran off a long time ago and must be dead like my mum and father.” He extended the coin to William. “It’s yours now.”

The look on Jem’s face wouldn’t allow him to refuse. He accepted it reluctantly. It
was
a tuppence, but all official British letters and images had been filed down and it had been re-carved. As the
John Barry
had rocked in Portsmouth harbor for six months prior to departure to New South Wales, he’d watched bored and fearful convicts carve these tokens, meant to be left to their families in remembrance. He didn’t know Jem had done so as well.

William hadn’t had purpose himself. He had no one left in England. Not a parent or sibling, not a wife or a child, not even a single mate.

A crude, stippled picture of a three-masted ship decorated one side of Jem’s token. The other had words done in the same, tiny-dotted style.

“What does it say?” William asked. “I can’t read.”

Jem recited from memory. “
Until I gain my liberty. Seven years. J.W. 1819
.”