Midnight struck across Lathmere from the great bronze cathedral bells of the High Terraces, their deep, somber tones muffled and distorted by the dense, driving curtains of autumn rain. Down on the riverfront of Lowbank, the water of the Gray Rush had risen to twelve point one feet on the public stone tide gauge at the South Pier—lapping against the bottom course of the timber mooring bollards and washing sheets of brown river foam across the lower boat ramp.
Inside the Old Ferry warehouse, the lamps were still burning bright. He cast a warm, golden glow across the thirty-foot floor. The scale tabletop high-pressure rig had been carefully dismantled into five clip-on sections, packed in straw. Then it loaded onto Eren Tal’s heavy four-wheeled heavy cart wagon. Tavi was tying down the oilcloth tarpaulins with tarred hemp rope. He pulled the lashing tight with a cart driver’s hitch.
Sister Merrow walked along the wagon line. She carried a large wicker basket containing two dozen warm sourdough crust rolls and a steaming iron kettle of boiled tea. She handed mugs to the six lightermen who were tying down the canvas sheets. The damp chill of wet stonework and pipe lime along the boat ramp was bitter. But the simple, hot food brought color back to the men’s weathered cheeks. “Eat, boys,” Merrow said gently. “You have a long watch in the market basin tonight. The river is rising, but Lowbank has an honest crew standing behind the wagons.”
