Adventure of John Smith 1

The barge shudders, then stills against a new bank. The hatch above groans open a finger’s width, and cold moonlight slices into the hold. Damp air rolls down, carrying mud, rope tar, and the faint bite of reeds.

John Smith ducks out first into the night, followed by Healer Gaston and the Boatman. The river glints black beside a narrow landing, and a low warehouse crouches beyond a strip of willows.

A lantern flickers somewhere upriver. The Ferryman shuts the hatch and points toward the warehouse, his voice barely above the water.

John Smith leads them toward the shadow of the shed, the folded paper still hidden on him. Behind them, the barge rocks softly at its moorings while the Seine whispers against the stones.

John Smith leaves Riverbank behind and arrives at the warehouse.

The warehouse swallows them in a breath of mildew and old grain. Moonlight leaks through warped boards, striping crates, barrels, and a rough table pushed against the wall.

John Smith crosses to the table, the folded paper still secure, and sets his shoulder to the light. The bandage has bled through in a dark patch beneath the cloth.

Gaston opens his satchel and rolls up his sleeves, already kneeling beside John with practiced hands.

The ferryman's steps fade off the boards. A latch clicks shut beyond the wall, and the warehouse settles into guarded silence.

Dawn seeps in by degrees, thinning the black to slate. The warehouse stays still, and John lets the rough floor and his own breathing do most of the work while Gaston keeps watch over the wound.

Gaston cuts away the old wrap and replaces it with clean linen. His hands move carefully, but without fuss, as if he has done this for soldiers, dockhands, and worse.

The first pale light finds the folded paper on the table. It lies flat and ugly beside the bandages, waiting for morning like a verdict.

Outside, the river hushes under the warehouse wall. Inside, Gaston finishes the knot, then steps back and gives John a level look, leaving the question hanging in the calm air.

John unfolds the paper carefully and drags it closer to the light. The cramped names and seals sharpen on the page, and one mark repeats beside several entries, a handler’s sign tucked in the margin like a private ledger.

A list of names surfaces from the fold, not just his own, with dates and payment notes scratched beside them. The ink is uneven, but the trail is clear enough to follow.

John’s thumb slips on the damp edge, leaving a dark smear across the last line. The paper creases under the pressure, a small tear starting near the seal.

Outside, a board creaks against the warehouse wall. Inside, the names stay visible in the pale wash of dawn, waiting for John to point at one and name the enemy.

John traces the margin with two fingers, then stops on a cramped notation beside three names. The handwriting matches the repeated mark. He finds the handler at last, and the name is Gervais.

Gaston leans in, catching the answer in John’s silence. The board outside creaks again, louder now, and a thin gust slips through the warped wall.

John’s thumb catches on the torn edge. The paper splits a little farther, and a fleck of damp ink stains his nail.

Below the name, a payment note confirms the trail, a routed sum for names collected and delivered. The warehouse feels smaller all at once, as if the ledger itself has put a finger to the door.