by Ken Follett
“We’ve done business with Harry Nipper at the Frying Pan for years and never had any trouble.”
The captain interjected: “I wouldn’t exactly say we’ve had no trouble.”
Tallow glared at him.
Mack said: “And it’s not fair that men should be forced to drink their wages, is it?”
Tallow looked piqued. “I’m not going to argue with the likes of you—there’s no work for you here, so be off.”
Mack persisted. “But why would you want your ship uncoaled in three days by a drunken and rowdy gang when you could have it done faster by my men?”
The captain, who was clearly not overawed by the owner’s son, added: “Yes, I’d like to know that.”
“Don’t you dare to question me, either of you,” Tallow said. He was trying to stand on his dignity but he was a little too young to succeed.
A suspicion crossed Mack’s mind. “Has someone told you not to hire my gang?” The look on Tallow’s face told him he had guessed right.
“You’ll find that nobody on the river will hire your gang, or Riley’s or Charlie Smith’s,” Tallow said petulantly. “The word has gone out that you’re a troublemaker.”
Mack realized this was very serious, and a cold chill settled on his heart. He had known that Lennox and the undertakers would move against him sooner or later, but he had not expected them to be supported by the ship owners.
It was a little puzzling. The old system was not particularly good for the owners. However, they had worked with the undertakers for years, and perhaps sheer conservatism led them to side with people they knew, regardless of justice.
It would be no use to show anger, so he spoke mildly to Tallow. “I’m sorry you’ve made that decision. It’s bad for the men and bad for the owners. I hope you’ll reconsider, and I bid you good day.”
Tallow made no reply, and Mack had himself rowed ashore. He felt dashed. He held his head in his hands and looked at the filthy brown water of the Thames. What had made him think he could defeat a group of men as wealthy and ruthless as the undertakers? They had connections and support. Who was he? Mack McAsh from Heugh.
He should have foreseen this.
He jumped ashore and made his way to St. Luke’s Coffee House, which had become his unofficial head quarters. There were now at least five gangs working the new system. Next Saturday night, when the remaining old-style gangs received their decimated wages from the rapacious tavern keepers, most of them would change over. But the shippers’ boycott would ruin that prospect.
The coffeehouse was next to St. Luke’s Church. It served beer and spirits as well as coffee, and food too, but everyone sat down to eat and drink, whereas most stood up in a tavern.
Cora was there, eating bread and butter. Although it was midafternoon, this was her breakfast: she was often up half the night. Mack asked for a plate of hashed mutton and a tankard of beer and sat down with her. Straightaway she said: “What’s the matter?”
He told her. As he talked he watched her innocent face. She was ready for work, dressed in the orange gown she had worn the first time he had met her and scented with her spicy perfume. She looked like a picture of the Virgin Mary, but she smelled like a sultan’s harem. It was no wonder that drunks with gold in their purses were willing to follow her down dark alleys, he thought.
He had spent three of the last six nights with her. She wanted to buy him a new coat. He wanted her to give up the life she led. She was his first real lover.
As he was finishing his story, Dermot and Charlie came in. He had been cherishing a faint hope that they might have had better luck than he, but their expressions told him they had not. Charlie’s black face was a picture of despondency, and Dermot said in his Irish brogue: “The owners have conspired against us. There’s not a captain on the river that will give us work.”
“Damn their eyes,” Mack said. The boycott was working and he was in trouble.
He suffered a moment of righteous indignation. All he wanted was to work hard and earn enough money to buy his sister’s freedom, but he was constantly thwarted by people who had money in bagftils.
Dermot said: “We’re finished, Mack.”
His readiness to give up angered Mack more than the boycott itself. “Finished?” he said scornfully. “Are you a man or what?”
“But what can we do?” said Dermot. “If the owners won’t hire our gangs, the men will go back to the old system. They’ve got to live.”
Without thinking, Mack said: “We could organize a strike.”
The other men were silent.
Cora said: “Strike?”
Mack had blurted out his suggestion as soon as it came into his mind but, as he thought more, it seemed the only thing to do. “All the coal heavers want to change to our system,” he said. “We could persuade them to stop working for the old undertakers. Then the shippers would have to hire the new gangs.”
Dermot was skeptical. “Suppose they still refuse to hire us?”
This pessimism angered Mack. Why did men always expect the worst? “If they do that, no coal will corrie ashore.”
“What will the men live on?”
“They can afford to take a few days off. It happens all the time—when there are no coal ships in port none of us work.”
“That’s true. But we couldn’t hold out forever.”
Mack wanted to scream with frustration. “Nor can the shippers—London must have coal!”
Dermot still looked dubious. Cora said: “But what else can you do, Dermot?”
Dermot frowned, and he thought for a moment, then his face cleared. “I’d hate to go back to the old ways. I’ll give it a try, by gob.”
“Good!” said Mack, relieved.
“I was in a strike once,” Charlie said lugubriously. “It’s the wives that suffer.”
“When were you in a strike?” Mack asked. He had no experience: it was something he had read about in the newspapers.
“Three years ago, on Tyneside. I was a coal miner.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a miner.” It had never occurred to Mack, or anyone in Heugh, that miners could strike. “How did it end?”
“The coal owners gave in,” Charlie admitted.
“There you are!” Mack said triumphantly.
Cora said anxiously: “You’re not up against northern landowners here, Mack. You’re talking about London tavern keepers, the scum of the earth. They might just send someone to cut your throat while you sleep.”
Mack looked into her eyes and saw that she was genuinely frightened for him. “I’ll take precautions,” he said.
She gave him a skeptical look but said no more.
Dermot said: “It’s the men that will have to be persuaded.”
“That’s right,” Mack said decisively. “There’s no point in the four of us discussing it as if we had the power to make the decision. We’ll call a meeting. What o’clock is it?”
They all glanced outside. It was becoming evening. Cora said: “It must be six.”
Mack went on: “The gangs that are working today will finish as soon as it gets dark. You two go around all the taverns along the High Street and spread the word.”
They both nodded. Charlie said: “We can’t meet here—it’s too small. There are about fifty gangs altogether.”
“The Jolly Sailor’s got a big courtyard,” said Dermot. “And the landlord’s not an undertaker.”
“Right,” Mack agreed. “Tell them to be there an hour after nightfall.”
“They won’t all get there,” said Charlie.
“Most will, though.”
Dermot said: “We’ll round up as many as we can.” He and Charlie went out.
Mack looked at Cora. “Are you taking an evening off?” he said hopefully.
She shook her head. “Just waiting for my accomplice.”
It troubled Mack that Peg was a thief and Cora was responsible. “I wish we could find a way for that child to make a living without stealing,” he sa
id.
“Why?”
The question flummoxed him. “Well, obviously …”
“Obviously what?”
“It would be better if she grew up honest.”
“How would it be better?”
Mack heard the undertone of anger in Cora’s questions, but he could not back off now. “What she does now is dangerous. She could end up hanging at Tyburn.”
“Would she be better off scrubbing the kitchen floor in some rich house, beaten by the cook and raped by the master?”
“I don’t think every kitchen skivvy gets raped—”
“Every pretty one does. And how would I make a living without her?”
“You could do anything, you’re shrewd and beautiful—”
“I don’t want to do anything. Mack, I want to do this.”
“Why?”
“I like it. I like dressing up and drinking gin and flirting. I steal from stupid men who have more money than they deserve. It’s exciting and it’s easy and I make ten times as much as I’d get dressmaking or running a little shop or serving customers in a coffeehouse.”
He was shocked. He had thought she would say she stole because she had to. The notion that she liked it overturned his expectations. “I really don’t know you,” he said.
“You’re clever, Mack, but you don’t know a damn thing.”
Peg arrived. She was pale and thin and tired, as always. Mack said: “Have you had some breakfast?”
“No,” she said, sitting down. “I’d love a glass of gin.”
Mack waved at a waiter. “A bowl of porridge with cream, please.”
Peg made a face, but when the food came she tucked in with relish.
While she was eating, Caspar Gordonson came in. Mack was glad to see him: he had been thinking of calling at the Fleet Street house to discuss the shippers’ boycott and the idea of a strike. Now he swiftly ran over the day’s events while the untidy lawyer sipped brandy.
As Mack talked, Gordonson looked more and more worried. When he had done, the lawyer began to speak in his high-pitched voice. “You have to understand that our rulers are frightened. Not just the royal court and the government, but the entire top layer: dukes and earls, aldermen, judges, merchants, landowners. All this talk of liberty unnerves them, and the food riots last year and the year before showed them what the people can do when they’re angry.”
“Good!” said Mack. “Then they should give us what we want.”
“Not necessarily. They’re afraid that if they do that you’ll only ask for more. What they really want is an excuse to call out the troops and shoot people.”
Mack could see that behind Gordonson’s cool analysis lay real fear. “Do they need an excuse?”
“Oh, yes. That’s because of John Wilkes. He’s a real thorn in their flesh. He accuses the government of being despotic. And as soon as troops are used against citizens, then thousands of people of the middling sort will say: ‘There, Wilkes was right, this government is a tyranny.’ And all those shopkeepers and silversmiths and bakers have votes.”
“So what kind of excuse does the government need?”
“They want you to scare those middling people by violence and rioting. That will get people worrying about the need to maintain order, and stop them thinking about freedom of speech. Then, when the army marches in, there will be a collective sigh of relief instead of a roar of outrage.”
Mack was fascinated and unnerved. He had never thought about politics this way. He had discussed high-flown theories out of books, and he had been the helpless victim of unjust laws, but this was halfway between the two. This was the zone where contending forces struggled and swayed, and tactics could alter the result. This, he felt, was the real thing—and it was dangerous.
The enchantment was lost on Gordonson: he just looked worried. “I got you into this, Mack, and if you get killed it will be on my conscience.”
His fear began to infect Mack. Four months ago I was just a coal miner, he thought; now I’m an enemy of the government, someone they want to kill. Did I ask for this? But he was under a powerful obligation. Just as Gordonson felt responsible for him, he was responsible for the coal heavers. He could not run away and hide. It would be shameful and cowardly. He had led the men into trouble and now he had to lead them out of it.
“What do you think we should do?” he asked Gordonson.
“If the men agree to strike, your job will be to keep them under control. You’ll have to stop them setting fire to ships and murdering strikebreakers and laying siege to undertakers’ taverns. These men aren’t parsons, as you well know—they’re young and strong and angry, and if they run riot they’ll burn London.”
“I think I might be able to do that,” Mack said. “They listen to me. They seem to respect me.”
“They worship you,” Gordonson said. “And that puts you in even greater danger. You’re a ringleader, and the government may break the strike by hanging you. From the moment the men say yes, you’ll be in terrible danger.”
Mack was beginning to wish he had never mentioned the word “strike.” He said: “What should I do?”
“Leave the place where you’re lodging and move somewhere else. Keep your address secret from all but a few trusted people.”
Cora said: “Come and live with me.”
Mack managed a smile. That part would not be difficult.
Gordonson went on: “Don’t show yourself on the streets in daylight. Appear at meetings, then vanish. Become a ghost.”
It was faintly ridiculous, Mack felt, but his fear made him accept it. “All right.”
Cora got up to leave. To Mack’s surprise, Peg put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “Be careful, Scotch Jock,” she said. “Don’t get knifed.”
Mack was surprised and touched by how much they all cared for him. Three months ago he had never met Peg, Cora or Gordonson.
Cora kissed him on the lips and then sauntered out, already swaying her hips seductively. Peg followed.
A few moments later Mack and Gordonson left for the Jolly Sailor. It was dark, but Wapping High Street was busy, and candlelight gleamed from tavern doorways, house windows and handheld lanterns. The tide was out, and a strong smell of rottenness wafted up from the foreshore.
Mack was surprised to see the tavern’s courtyard packed with men. There were about eight hundred coal heavers in London, and at least half of them were here. Someone had hastily erected a crude platform and placed four blazing torches around it for illumination. Mack pushed through the crowd. Every man recognized him and spoke a word or clapped him on the back. The news of his arrival spread quickly and they started to cheer. By the time he reached the platform they were roaring. He stepped up and gazed at them. Hundreds of coal-smeared faces looked back at him in the torchlight. He fought back tears of gratitude for their trust in him. He could not speak: they were shouting too loudly. He held up his hands for quiet, but it did no good. Some cried his name, others yelled “Wilkes and liberty!” and other slogans. Gradually one chant emerged and came to dominate the rest, until they were all bellowing the same:
“Strike! Strike! Strike!”
Mack stood and stared at them, thinking: What have I done?
21
JAY JAMISSON RECEIVED A NOTE FROM HIS FATHER AT breakfast time. It was characteristically curt.
Grosvenor Square
8 o’clock a.m.
Meet me at my place of business at noon.
—G.J.
His first guilty thought was that Father had found out about the deal he had made with Lennox.
It had gone off perfectly. The shippers had boycotted the new coal heaving gangs, as Lennox had wanted; and Lennox had returned Jay’s IOUs, as agreed. But now the coal heavers were on strike and no coal had been landed in London for a week. Had Father discovered that all that might not have happened but for Jay’s gambling debts? The thought was dreadful.
He went to the Hyde Park encampment as usual and got permission fro
m Colonel Cranbrough to be absent in the middle of the day. He spent the morning worrying. His bad temper made his men surly and his horses skittish.
The church bells were striking twelve as he entered the Jamissons’ riverside warehouse. The dusty air was laden with spicy smells—coffee and cinnamon, rum and port, pepper and oranges. It always made Jay think of his childhood, when the barrels and tea-chests had seemed so much bigger. Now he felt as he had as a boy, when he had done something naughty and was about to be carpeted. He crossed the floor, acknowledging the deferential greetings of the men, and climbed a rickety wooden staircase to the counting-house. After passing through a lobby occupied by clerks he went into his father’s office, a corner room full of maps and bills and pictures of ships.
“Good morning, Father,” he said. “Where’s Robert?” His brother was almost always at Father’s side.
“He had to go to Rochester. But this concerns you more than him. Sir Philip Armstrong wants to see me.”
Armstrong was the right-hand man of Secretary of State Viscount Weymouth. Jay felt even more nervous. Was he in trouble with the government as well as with his father? “What does Armstrong want?”
“He wants this coal strike brought to an end and he knows we started it.”
This did not seem to have anything to do with gambling debts, Jay inferred. But he was still anxious.
“He’ll be here any moment now,” Father added.
“Why is he coming here?” Such an important personage would normally summon people to his office in Whitehall.
“Secrecy, I imagine.”
Before he could ask any more questions the door opened and Armstrong came in. Both Jay and Sir George stood up. Armstrong was a middle-aged man formally dressed with wig and sword. He walked with his nose a little high, as if to show that he did not usually descend into the mire of commercial activity. Sir George did not like him—Jay could tell by his father’s expression as he shook hands and asked Armstrong to sit down.
Armstrong refused a glass of wine. “This strike has to end,” he said. “The coal heavers have closed down half of London’s industry.”