By the noon clanging for Midday Vespers he was through the Wicking Gate and trawling up Tullathon Quay.  At the rust-ironed padlock to warehouse Gyr 36, he bunched a silver Hammerhand and smashed the door from its hinge. 

Inside was gloom, motey dust unsettled, and 40 barrels of fresh Spermaceti oil.  He lolled over to the nearest, braced his massive upper arms around its hoopy copper width, hawked, grunted, then hoisted it up, staggered, and headed back to the hung open doorway.

Off the Shearwater dock he set the quarter-ton barrel down.  His arms were grooved with the barrel's hoops, shaking and white. 

A small child, a ratfer, saw him tip the barrel into the sea. 

The Spermaceti oil glistened in the fall sunlight, splashing onto the spumey water below, rainbowing over the gentle landward waves.

When the first barrel was emptied, Jayne picked it up, and carried it easily back to the warehouse.  Then he emerged with another. 

The ratfer child ran off to tell its friends.

      *

Around the Grammaton toll for 3 he'd splashed almost half the Ptarmigan's rendered fat into the harbor, and the roustabout crew were gathering about to watch, at first bewildered to see him alive, then outraged at his actions.  They rallied to reason and shout and force him down. 

He ignored them.  He promised them recompense.  He said there was ample brass in his vault to see them all clear.  And they ignored him, and emboldened by their numbers, laid hands on him as he lugged the 15^th barrel out to the grindstone quay.

He hoisted them in his massive metal hands and flung them into the sea, then poured whale oil down onto their heads. 

The others backed away.  Some watched from the eaves.  Others left, sickened at the waste.

By the 20^th his arms and chest were lined with deep cuts from the barrel runnels and cooping lines, bleeding freely.  He walked in a drunken weave and several times near fell off the quay. 

By the 30^th it was late and pushing All Hallows.  Each haul from the Gyr to the dock-head was getting longer and slower.  His legs and feet and chest were basted with dried and fresh blood from the rusted barrel rings.  His trail was dark with it. 

He kept on.