The Docks
Loman John stared into the darkness. He could hear the steamer-ship — could always hear the steamer-ship — before its dim lights came into view. The fog was low in the evenings, and even the strongest lanterns could not pierce the mist for more than a kilometer at most; but the hissing grind of the engines were unmistakable, and it carried even in the Cliffside fog.
The layfolk called it fog, but Loman John knew more names. Every dockworker did. There were fogs that were light and pleasant, like butterflies kissing your skin. There was damp and heavy fog, the kind that made your socks wet. There were the mists that covered the air like smoke, and you couldn’t see three feet in front of your face. There were more besides, and each had their own name to the Dockworkers of Cliffside.
This fog was a Blanket. It was the kind of fog that hid even the brightest lantern from only a foot away. It was as dark as a death shroud and twice as quiet.
But through the still air, a steamer-ship was approaching, and had been for some time. It was moving slowly, but through the Blanket Loman John could hear that the engine was not even half- or quarter-speed. A heavy cargo, then, or a larger ship than he had ever tied up before. In all his years of being Loman at this end of the docks, he had only ever tied cutters and sloops.
Loman John sucked at his teeth. If this was a cutter or a sloop, he’d eat his hat.
Next to him, Big Williams worked his mouth furiously around a small wooden pick in his teeth.
“Quit fidgeting,” Loman John muttered. “You always fidget.”
“I ain’t fidgeting,” Big Williams muttered back, his eyes likewise locked into the darkness.
“You always fidget,” Loman John shifted his leg under his rear end. Plucking his pipe from his mouth, he tapped it gently on a nearby crate. “When you’re worried, you fidget.”
Instead of denying it, Big Williams growled deep in his throat and rubbed his unshaven jaw with a meaty hand. A moment of thought more, and the hand dropped to his side. “Could be pirates.”
“We got a treaty,” Loman John scoffed. “A pirate shows his mug near Cliffside, it’s getting shot off.”
“They’re slow,” Big Williams said. “Heavy cargo. Could mean gold. Lots of gold.”
Loman John tapped his pipe again before putting it back in his mouth. “It’s Germans.”
“Could be German pirates,” Big Williams said after a long pause.
Loman Jack sighed again and shifted his weight back to the other side. “No, there’s a treaty. Has been for a year. It’s Germans.”
“Can’t trust ’em,” Big Williams said, his deep voice quiet and intimate.
“The war’s been over for years,” Loman drawled around his pipe-stem. “The king signed a treaty. They don’t attack us, we don’t attack them. We trade with them, right?”
“Nothin’ I want from them,” Big Williams growled. “‘cept maybe another punch.”
Loman Jack paused. Big Williams was not your typical docker. Word was that he had belonged to a special squad in his Majesty’s Army and had left the service after killing five hundred Germans in the last war. Loman Jack wasn’t sure he believed it. For a man who had killed five-hundred, he was awfully eager to make it five-hundred and one.
Loman Jack, on the other hand, had only killed five. He used to work on a fishing trawler off the coast of Scotland, and had to defend himself several times. He was in no hurry to try again.
“Almost here,” Big Williams grumbled.
Loman Jack puffed once more before pulling the pipe from his mouth. “Better pull out the lines, then,” he said, pointedly.
Big Williams nodded once and lumbered off, his square frame fitting neatly between the huge square warehouse buildings. A moment later he returned, dragging a huge rope behind him.
For a moment, the Blanket was still. Then, a dim glow of sickly yellow light pierced the fog. The lights drew closer, and soon the soft glint of tempered steel parted the darkness. Like a lumbering swamp-monster, the steamship came to a halt right in front of them, a thick cloud of warm fog clinging like cobwebs to its side.
It was a German ship, sleek and almost flat against the water with a large bulge where the boiler sat, and two steam stacks that spat white smoke into the air. Most of the ship was under the water, Loman Jack knew, but there was enough above water to let him know, this was a fully defended cargo.
He took the pipe from his mouth as Big Williams tossed one end of the rope to the ship. Cupping a large hand, he called to the captain. “Name and purpose!”
The answer was swift. “Blauzonne, for trading and supply,” came the thick German reply.
“Welcome to Cliffside,” Loman Jack called back. “Bring your papers.” He watched as the captain waved back and turned to his crew, shouting orders in thick German. Loman Jack replaced his pipe and stared for a few moments, twenty-three years of instinct bubbling behind his eyes.
The sailors moved like sailors. They had the slow and haggard gait of a crew too long at sea, eager for the chance to stand on firm ground and enjoy a drink. Some looked almost sick with it. They did their work quickly and efficiently, preparing the lines and drawing out the gangplank.
It nagged the back of Loman Jack’s head, how quiet they were.
“Big Williams,” he said, grabbing the thick man as he walked past. “Go and fetch Ollie, will you?”
Big Williams frowned, and then nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”
When the ship was secure and the gangplank scraped on the wooden slats of the pier, Loman Jack met the captain as he strode confidently off the ship. “Where you from?” he asked, scanning the papers that the captain thrust into his face.
“Bridleburg,” the captain smiled. “We have special permission from your King Willhelm to come and trade our wares.”
Loman Jack grunted as he found the small page with a very authoritative seal. A large signature neighbored it, full of curls and loops. “You have a warehouse?” Loman Jack asked, handing the papers back. “Cost is 10 pound a foot, if you want to stack crates, you use your own boys. My men cost seven an hour.”
“Oh, we will not need to hire a warehouse,” the captain smiled wider. “We already have adequate storage for our own cargo.”
“Right,” Loman Jack pushed the pipe back through his teeth. “You’ll pay the tax, then?”
The captain balked, his smile suddenly forced. “Tax? We have paid our transit tax already — I have the paper right here…”
“Not the transit tax,” Loman Jack shook his head. “Storage tax. You don’t rent storage on the Docks, you pay the tax. Got to keep my men fed, you see. And now Businesses are building their own warehouses, well, we figure it’s time to take care of our own.”
The captain’s smile faded. He cast a glance back at where his men stood on deck, arms folded or leaning against the small cabin wall. They were exhausted, Loman Jack could tell, but they weren’t asleep yet. Their eyes were locked on their captain, still and silent.
The captain looked back at Loman Jack. “The Commerce Treaty of Brackenburg has in its writing, nothing of storage taxes.”
“No?” Loman Jack gave a sniff. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. Tend not to think about things like that, our King. Only it’s important, you see. People like me, like my workers, we have to eat. If we don’t eat, we might fall to desperation, you see.”
“That is not our concern,” the captain squared his jaw. “If Britannia cannot feed its workers, then your King should not have signed the treaty.”
“No,” Loman Jack took the pipe from his mouth and thoughtfully tapped it on the sole of his boot. “No, I agree with you there. See me and my folk, we think he signed a bum deal, our King. But he’s our King, you know? So we’re going to help him, right? That treaty was supposed to stop piracy, and well, we figure the best way to stop piracy is to stop people becoming pirates, aye? And if my people get fed, well, that’s a fair handful of people who don’t need to be pirates to live.”
The captain cast a sidelong glance at his men. Loman Jack could see several had casually picked up slim pipes and wrenches. One was casually polishing a pistol. You think so, do you?
“And if we refuse?”
Loman Jack sniffed again. “Hope it doesn’t come to that. Hope you can see how rotten this treaty is for people like us. Figure we have a right to protect ourselves.
“Ah,” the captain nodded slowly. “I see. I can understand why you feel the need to protect your men. Much like a captain and his crew, yes?”
Loman Jack didn’t answer, but his eyes narrowed in recognition.
“Very well,” the captain tossed up a hand in theatrical defeat. “What is the cost of this storage tax?”
“Half pound per stone of cargo,” Loman Jack said, puffing on his pipe.
The captain raised and eyebrow and then shrugged. “As you wish,” he pulled out his pouch. “I fear, however, you are to be disappointed. We do not come with boxes and sacks of heavy things. We are specialists. Providers of rare and valuable things. We only have one item we wish to sell, and it is rather light.” He tossed seven coins into Loman Jack’s open palm.
Loman Jack nodded and walked back up the pier to his waiting men. Seven pounds. That wouldn’t last a day for his dockers. You think seven pounds can make us square? No, that damn Kaiser of yours started a war that destroyed our livelihood. It’s going to take a lot more than seven pounds to make things square, and like all good subjects, you’ve got to pay your leader’s debts.
“Well?” asked Big Williams. “Ollie’s here. You want we should wake him up?”
“No,” Loman Jack fingered the seven pound coins in his pocket. “We wait until they start to unload. There’ll be only one box. Once they’re off the plank and on our docks, that’s when we introduce them to old Ollie here.” Loman Jack smiled along with his men as he patted the large cannon that sat dark and quiet, aiming directly along the docks and towards the gangplank. “They’re selling something important,” he puffed, “and once they realize how dangerous the docks can be here at night, I’m sure they’ll be willing to pay for our protection.”
“Feh,” Big Williams grunted, a frown marring his face. “Germans. Pirates all of them. Can’t trust em.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Loman Jack looked back at the boat, “but their money clinks like anyone elses.”