Dangers of the Sea

I Thought I Heard the Old Man Say

I drop my head down further under my hood as another patrol of guards passes by the alleyway I'm hiding in.

Soldiers are everywhere this morning. They are probably all looking for me, or at least what I took.

I grip the straps of my satchel a little tighter. When I took the documents, I didn't think there would be an immediate backlash, especially not one this large. Getting to a ship and out of London will be my best option to get word out safely and quickly. Now, how to do that with soldiers stationed at every corner and patrolling every alleyway?

Speaking of soldiers patrolling alleyways, I need to get moving.

Moving around the edge of a building, voices filter through the muted sounds of the alleyway. I peak my head around hoping to catch a glimpse of the patrol. It's two young men.

"Becket, what are we even looking for?" A guard speaks up looking at his partner. The partner, Becket, looks up at the sky as if he's asking God for answers.

"Monroe, for the fifth time, a thief stole important documents last night, and we are searching for the poor bastard. He's probably hiding somewhere in the city, hoping to stay holed up until the patrols go back to normal."

Becket's answer gives me pause. Do the guards not know what I stole? Or that I'm not a man?

"So we are looking for a man who stole documents, and we don't have a description of the thief that would make identifying him any easier?" Monroe asked. Yeah, they don't know my true gender.

"All I know is that the man had a cloak on, and possibly a satchel bag. No one has told me anything else." Becket shrugs at Monroe.

"This is going to be a shit patrol," is Monroe's response, and the two of them start moving again in the direction I am hiding.

If the patrols' only knowledge on me is that I'm in a cloak and I have a satchel, then ditching those two things should help me hide myself better.

I drop my cloak off my shoulders and throw it behind a hay cart. Now, how will I hide the documents without my satchel? By the cart are a few horses grazing on the hay within. The horses have smaller bags that I could move my belongings into without being deemed a satchel because of size. I pull off a smaller bag from a dark brown horse with tan blotches, and the equestrian pays me no mind as I rustle through the small bag.

I plop onto the ground, and look in the small bag. It has a bag of coins, an apple that's a little bruised, identification papers for a Matthew Monroe, and a small pistol gun. Oh shit, this is that patrolman's horse.

I stuff my own supplies into the bag after taking out his identification papers, and take off running deep into the crowds, as the voices of the officers leave the alleyway. I can't get caught.

I pump my legs, one foot after another. Alleys blur past me as I push on forwards. I move my head left, right, back left, and back right as I move down each alleyway. I can't get caught. Not now. Not when I'm so close. Thumps of footsteps pound behind me, are beating my ears in. I have to keep moving. The thumps are closer and closer together, almost like the men are directly behind me. My lungs burn along with my legs. I chance a look behind me to see. . .

No one.

There's no one behind me.

My foot catches on the other and I stumble. The thumps still beat away deafening in my ears as I slow to a stop, but it steadily slows as I gasp in more and more air.

I need to get out of here. Out of London.

I step out of another alleyway onto the main road. Now, what is the closest port to me?