He stopped on the narrow pavement. It was beginning to rain. Should he go right or left? Where was the nearest thoroughfare where he might find a hansom? Would he even get one in the rain? He had very little money left. Not enough to bribe anyone. It was a good three miles to the docks, even as the crow flies, farther on foot with all the twists and bends of streets. He had not time to go on foot, even if he ran, not and still search the docks for one ship, and that ship for two frightened girls, possibly kept below decks and bound.

He turned towards the river and ran down the next alley and into another broader street. There were drays and carts in it, and one closed carriage. No hansoms.

He started to swear, then saved his breath for running.

Perhaps along Upper Thames Street, the closest one to the water, there would be cabs. It was too far! He needed to hurry. They would have to make a detour around the Tower of London.

He stood on the curb waving and shouting. No one stopped. They all splashed by in the harder and harder rain, going complacently on their way. He started to run eastwards. Queenhithe Dock was a little ahead of him. Stew Lane Stairs were to the right.

A long string of barges was pushing downriver, making slow way. The tide had not turned yet, but it would be slack water soon.

Barges! On the river!

He charged across the street, colliding with a costermonger's cart, extricating himself with difficulty amid an array of curses from several passersby. He yelled an apology over his shoulder and sprinted down Dowgate Hill and along the narrow cut down to the stairs just as the last barge drew level. He yelled, waving both his arms, signaling the barge to slow down.

The bargee must have thought it was some kind of warning. He eased a little, dropping back all the weight that his ships would allow. It was enough for Monk to run and leap. He barely made it. Without the bargee's frantic help he would have fallen back into the icy water. As it was, he was soaked from the waist down and had to be hauled sodden and shaking onto the deck.

"Wot the 'ell's the matter?" the bargee demanded.

"Got to get to the S-Surrey D-Dock!" Monk stuttered, shaking with cold. "Before the tide..."

"Missed yer ship, 'ave yer?" the bargee said with a laugh. "Yer'll be lucky if they 'ave yer. Were yer bin? Some 'ore'ouse up Devil's Acre? Gaw' lummy, yer look like 'ell! Wot ship d'yer want, mate?"

"S-Summer R-Rose!" Monk found he could not control the shaking.

"That ol' bucket! Yer'd be better missin' it, believe me." The bargee bent his back and pushed harder on his heavy pole, steering with almost absentminded skill.