by Tim Standish
‘Penny for them,’ said Church
‘Just thinking how cheery it all looks out there.’
Church nodded. ‘And dangerous. Once your Preston filly and whoever she works for find out Harris and his friends didn’t put us off, which they will, they’ll try and find us again and this time they won’t be as gentle. Luckily, we’re hard people to find, but better safe than sorry.’ He patted his left side under his arm where I knew he was wearing a large, Belgian-made semi-automatic in his shoulder holster. My own pistol was a Webley, a newer version of the army regulation one I was used to, lighter and better balanced, less of a kick according to Church. It felt odd to wear a pistol again. In Canada I had switched to a rifle after a brief exchange of fire on one of my first patrols gave me a decided preference for range over regulation. It felt doubly odd to wear a pistol under my arm instead of in a side-holster and Church had made me practise before we left, drawing it again and again until I had the knack of it.
There had been more discussion about the airship in the photograph in the briefing room before we left. Collier had thought that army and naval pilots should be our first port of call whereas Church’s view was that pilots with the skill, and the nerve, to fly that close to buildings were rare and, given the use it was being put to in this instance, were more likely to be found employed in criminal, rather than military, enterprises. With that in mind we were on our way to see an old contact of his, a club owner and more besides who, Church had assured Collier, would be able to point us in the right direction.
We lapsed into silence as the cab took us along the Embankment, through the City and skirted the south of Whitechapel. Church finished his first cigarette but didn’t light another. We passed the Tower of London, being spruced up for next year’s Jubilee, the newly gleaming walls and open spaces of its grounds in stark contrast to the tightly packed tenements that stretched away northwards. Then we were in the docklands, smoke thicker in the air here than in the West End, drifting up from factories and warehouses but also the ships at anchor all along the docks. The ships themselves were as varied as their cargoes: tall-masted clippers, short, chunky steam ships and larger, more modern vessels. The majority of the flags they flew were British, or from one of the colonies, though the other major powers were well represented and I saw more than one ship with the ‘Stars and Bars’ of the Confederate States fluttering at the rear. Cranes and mechanical lifters were thick in attendance beside most of the ships, working quickly to lift a wide assortment of bales, barrels and crates onto the dockside for onward transportation.
The traffic changed as we drove, with commercial vehicles coming to dominate the further east we went; I saw trucks, lorries and even the occasional horse-drawn cart drive past while above us a short and ragged arc of airships waited sullenly, propellers gently turning, for their turn to load or unload. The people changed too; more men than women, rougher clothing and rougher faces, the spread of nationalities reflecting the breadth of the trade that poured into London. Finally, we came to Canning Town and Church rapped on the roof of the cab and a small hatch opened up. The directions that Church called up took us away from the dock and into the blocks of warehouses, factories and workshops that led away from the river, finally bringing us to a halt in a wide street, warehouses lining each side. Several had their doors open, goods being loaded or unloaded, bright electric lamps above the entrances lighting up patches of the road like day. We stopped alongside an alley between two of the unlit warehouses.
‘We’ll walk from here,’ Church shouted up to the driver.
‘Right you are, sir,’ replied the driver.
I opened the door and went out first, waiting while Church paid for the cab. The driver took Church’s money, making change from a large leather pouch that he drew out from the seat beside him. ‘Are you sure this is the right place, sir?’ He looked nervously around him.
Church handed him back a few coins as a tip. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I wouldn’t want to be walking around here at night.’ The cabbie replied, looking pointedly at a pair of dock hands trudging tiredly along the road next to us, both dark faced. ‘I mean, you don’t know what they get up to.’
I was in London when the Americans started arriving in large numbers. It was the summer of ’83. The Confederates had just bombed Washington and it was pretty clear to most people that the Union was going to lose. The majority of refugees came to Britain, and, as is often the case, they settled first where they landed, building new lives alongside their fellows before venturing further. Those who were black soon found that, despite the entreaties of a Queen determined to show the world what Christian charity looked like, they were far less welcomed than their white counterparts. Shouted abuse, printed vitriol and attacks in the street were not uncommon as some people rejected the notion that we should welcome these newcomers with open arms. Even amongst my own friends, whom I had considered well travelled and open minded, the sentiment was largely hostile, the language casually spiteful. This cab driver’s tone was tame by comparison which, taking the London cabbie as a barometer of social sentiment, made me think things had shifted slightly since I was last home.
I saw Church stand straighter, though, and stare at the driver. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I served alongside men like them when I was in Africa. They fought well, and died well when they had to. And got along well enough. Because what it came down to is this: soldiers are soldiers. And people are people.’
‘Well I meant no disrespect, of course, sir. Didn’t know you were a soldier. Of course, I would have served myself except for this leg.’ The driver lightly slapped his right knee a few times.
Church gave him a sceptical look. ‘Well, no need to put yourself in danger now. We’ll make our own way back.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the cabbie, throwing Church his best approximation of a salute and turning his cab around in the street to drive back the way we had come, blowing the whistle as he did.
Church shook his head and set off down an alleyway between two of the buildings. The light faded as we walked away from the main street.
The alleyway was too narrow for us to walk abreast so I followed just behind, thinking about my own troops in Canada, the majority there in preference to a gaol or the gallows, our nationalities a distillation of the Empire. And Church was right. After a while, soldiers are soldiers and bonds do form, though, in my experience, not quite to the extent of the caring brotherhood Church had implied to the cabbie.
‘Did your soldiers really get along together?’ I asked.
‘Eventually,’ said Church. ‘More or less.’ He paused. ‘Once I’d cracked a few heads together anyway.’
The alley was long and narrow, the light almost disappearing as we reached a point where two more warehouses backed onto the two that we were walking between. Rubbish was scattered sparsely along it and something small started in the gloom ahead of us and disappeared through a broken grill in the wall before I could see what it was. Another light from up ahead became slowly stronger as we continued along the alleyway until we emerged from the end and, to my surprise, I realised that its source was a set of particularly ornate gas lamps, arranged at intervals around a cobbled square formed by the backs of several buildings. The next thing I saw was a cab pulling away from the pavement on the far side, looping around the square and out along a wide, lamplit street that led away north. Where it had been parked a small group of people were walking to join a queue of fifty or so others where they stood waiting outside a dark building with a brightly lit doorway, above which was a large red, illuminated sign that read ‘Boston’s’. And below it, in smaller letters: ‘Bar. Music. Dancing.’ As I watched, one of the doormen unclipped a velvet rope and let a handful of people from the queue into the club.
Church stood taking in the scene in silence, his brow furrowing as he did.
‘I assume this has changed a little since the last time you were here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it bloody has,’ he
replied then set off across the square. I followed, walking alongside him. The queue was a mix of white and black faces, all of them were young, none older than mid-twenties and every one of them was dressed up for a night out, the women wearing frothy ensembles similar to the outfit that Green had been wearing that afternoon. The young men were likewise sharply dressed in three-piece suits, including some rather outré shades of tweed; a number of them sporting thick, ornamented gold watch chains.
We arrived at doorway, eyed suspiciously by those at the front of the queue. One of the four doormen standing behind the rope came over to us, walking slowly but purposefully to determine who had decided to disrupt his carefully arranged line of customers. He was smaller than us but broadly square in dimensions, not so much clothed as upholstered in a broad-lapelled dark blue suit, his shirt and tie only a shade or two lighter. A bowler hat completed his outfit.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ His voice was deep, his accent American, twanging.
‘We’re here to see Boston,’ said Church.
‘You’re here for the club?’ asked the doorman.
‘For the owner,’ replied Church. ‘Boston Jack. I’m an old friend.’
‘Well he didn’t mention he was having any old friends over tonight.’ The doorman folded his arms. Behind him, one of the others walked from around behind the rope to join him. Further along the queue was getting ragged as some people leaned out to see what was going on.
‘Just tell him that Mr Church is here to see him.’
The doorman raised his voice. ‘You want to come into the club, you queue like everyone else and maybe, if you look like genial folks, maybe we’ll let you in.’ Next to him the other doorman lifted the right side of his jacket up, showing an ivory handled revolver. ‘What do you say?’
Church shook his head and started off for the back of the queue. I followed. As we did the door opened again, letting out a burst of loud, frenetic music and another group of people were let in. ‘You see,’ shouted the doorman after us. ‘You two’ll be at the front in no time.’ I looked back at him. He smiled a broad smile, all affability and bonhomie now, and walked back to take up his position by the door.
Church was silent as we walked to the back of the queue. The club-goers nearest to us gave us a quick glance then carried on with their conversation, laughing as they did.
‘How do you know Boston Jack again?’
‘I met him just after he first arrived, must be over ten years ago. I was with the Branch then, met him when we raided a club in Limehouse looking for anarchists. Saw this black bloke, must have been about my age, not running, not fighting, just smoking a cigar by the bar. I walked over to give him what’s what and he offered me a cigar. The two of us ended up having a smoke while everyone else got stuck in. Just hit it off you know, the way you just sometimes do. So I let him go, kept an eye on him and I watched him work his way up from whatever he was then to bossing his own show. And he helped me out every now and again. And sometimes, as long as he behaved himself and made sure his men did likewise, I did the same. By the time I left he was running, or had an eye on, anything outside the law down here.’ Church looked down the line and shook his head. ‘Last time I came here they were still patching up the bullet holes in the door,’ he said, sounding almost sentimental.
‘What’s he like then, this fellow?’
Church smiled. ‘Well. We always said: there are only two things you need to know about Boston Jack. One: he’s not from Boston and two—’
‘His name ain’t Jack.’ The voice came loudly from behind us, and I turned around to see a man with the same bulk as Church and similarly pugilistic features though, as much as I could judge at first glance, a much cheerier demeanour. He wore his hair and beard short, the latter tinged with grey. He was dressed casually; dark trousers and a white shirt with what looked like an army uniform jacket, sleeves bare of insignia but with the gold crossed swords of an American cavalry regiment sewn onto the collar.
Church moved forward, stretched out his hand. Boston Jack followed suit and they clasped in a handshake, stock still for a moment before firmly, slowly, shaking hands.
Church pointed to me: ‘My associate, Mr Sterling.’
Boston Jack nodded a greeting at me as he stopped shaking hands and slapped Church on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get you inside. There’s a fine old rye I came across that I’ve been waiting for an excuse to try.’ He walked off down the side of the club, down an alleyway even narrower than the one we had emerged from. As he did I noticed for the first time the kinetoscope, painted black and almost invisible up near the roof of the building next to the club. Another further down focused on the door that Boston Jack led us too. He knocked on the door, which opened immediately and was held out of our way by a man dressed like the doormen outside. Crooked under the arm not holding the door was a large-calibre pump-action shotgun, its barrel severely shortened. It would be a deadly weapon in the confines of the hallway.
‘Expecting trouble, Boston?’ asked Church as we walked up a narrow and dusty set of bare wooden stairs. The rhythm and beat of the music from the club was just audible as we walked, faintly but insistently travelling through the fabric of the building.
‘Just a little local disagreement,’ came the reply from in front. ‘I could ask you the same question, though. That’s a lot of iron you’re carrying around with you, Church.’
‘You know what it’s like, Boston, Canning Town’s a dangerous place, especially for us white folks,’ said Church.
Boston laughed, a sudden boom of sound in the tight space of the stairs. ‘You tell that to the boys and girls downstairs.’
We arrived at the top of the stairs where a long, narrow corridor led past a single doorway to another set of stairs leading back down on the far side. Another of Boston’s men leaned against the wall further down the corridor, no gun in sight this time but eyes on Church and me as we waited while Boston opened what I assumed was his office door. The music grew louder as he did and, following him inside, I realised that what was now Boston Jack’s office had once been the warehouse overseer’s, square panes of glass creating a rear wall that gave a perfect view of the floor below.
Boston walked over behind the desk that stood in front of the window. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘take a seat, gentlemen.’ His accent was definitely from the Northern States, what they had called the Union before the Second Civil War, but much beyond that I couldn’t tell. He was confident, clearly used to giving orders. I had seen that kind of confidence before, in Canada, the kind that was a combination of inborn attitude, experience of command and surviving enemy fire. Now that I could see the jacket he was wearing in the light of the office, I could see the badge on the collar of the jacket more clearly: a number ten above a pair of crossed swords.
‘Something on your mind, Mr Sterling?’ Boston asked. I looked into a face that was unreadable, relaxed but not at rest. His eyes were hard, sharp and steady as he looked at me.
‘I was thinking the 10th Cavalry was one of the few regiments that held together after Philadelphia fell,’ I said. ‘Didn’t panic, apparently, held off Confederate forces so that refugees fleeing the city could escape.’
Boston made a quiet sound that might have been surprise. ‘The man knows his badges,’ he said. ‘But this.’ He pulled at one of the sleeves of his uniform. ‘Nothing to do with me. It’s just something I found in second-hand store.’ He smiled. ‘I guess I just like wearing it.’ He gave a half-friendly smile that said the subject was closed. ‘Now what say I get you fellows a drink?’ Without waiting for an answer, he reached into a drawer under his desk and took out a brown bottle which he placed on the desk in front of him. The label was black and white, hand printed, the main part of the label taken up with a roughly etched portrait of what looked like George Washington. Boston Jack took out three glasses, apparently from the same place the bottle had been, and lined them up on the desk. With something approaching reverence, he held the bottle steady in fro
nt of him, uncorked it carefully and poured out three generous measures then put a glass in front of each of us. ‘Cheers,’ he said and looked at the glass for a moment before taking a sip. Church and I did the same. It was a vast improvement on some of the whiskies I had tried over in Canada, smooth and warming with a touch of sweetness.
Church put his empty glass on the table. ‘Good stuff. Business must be good, Boston.’
Boston took out a cigarette case, opened it and offered us one of the Turkish ovals inside. Church took one and lit both with a lighter. Boston pointed over his shoulder with the cigarette. ‘A year ago or so I took pity on a fellow countryman, recently arrived in London. Some sort of piano player.’ He smoked. ‘Next thing I know we’ve got people queuing out the door to come in and throw themselves around to something they tell me is music. Rag they call it.’ Another draw on the cigarette. ‘And not just locals either, we get plenty of fancier folks queuing every night and spending plenty when they’re here.’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded at the bottle. ‘Another?’
‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks Boston,’ replied Church.
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Boston as he poured, ‘they don’t make this one any more.’
‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Because the Confederates burned down the factory, summer of ’85. Teaching us a lesson, you see.’ He sipped his whiskey. ‘So. What brings you here, Church? Must be something serious.’
‘Looking for someone to help with a job,’ said Church.
‘What kind of help?’
‘I need a pilot, someone who can fly an airship through a city, land in between buildings, get out again without any problems and without anyone the wiser.’