by Ian Porter
Nash had asked the man to hold his horse until he returned. And there would be more work where that came from; at a shilling each time. Good money for an hour’s work, especially for a man who, assuming he was local to the area, was probably an ex-docker who would never be able to work in his chosen profession again.
Nash could have left his horse & cart closer to the ferry entrance but he had always liked crowds. A man could disappear into them. Being opposite Silvertown station and the only drinking den in the area to have escaped the catastrophe untouched, the pavement and street around the hotel was always thronged with local factory workers and the army of builders now constructing four hundred new homes to replace the thousand which had been lost. Workers from both the manure and animal rendering works were also on the pavement, always drinking outside as a courtesy to the noses of the pub landlord and his barmaids. The place was always very busy, so Nash’s ex-soldier employee would probably not have seen which way he had gone, and assumed he always disappeared into the pub.
Nash would then pick his way past what was left of the great metal blots on the riverside landscape; the Tate & Lyle, Keller’s, Trebor and assorted jam-making and biscuit factories; and through the devastation and construction to the Woolwich foot tunnel that ran adjacent to the ferry. He would then walk through the tunnel under the river to Woolwich, before riding the ferry back while he looked around the engine room to spot his man and to check all seemed in order.
Nash told the No Conscription Fellowship to dress the objector in the rags of the poor so he would not look out of place, but nonetheless he was usually easy to spot. He would probably have eaten many a meal of meat, vegetables and fruit throughout his life, so did not have the pallid, sallow complexion and wrinkled grey skin of the bread and scrape-fed, fag-end smoking East End poor. And just to make sure a mistake was not made in identification, he was to always wear a green muffler.
The objector had been given instructions on which one of the two ferries to ride. The engine room was packed with a huddled sea of misery that had it resemble a Victorian common lodging house. It was quite a performance for Nash to pick his way through the great unwashed, appearing to look for a place to sit while actually looking at each man’s face in turn.
Once the flu had become commonplace, Nash had begun to put a handkerchief over his nose and mouth whenever he entered these packed confines. But he had noticed that while it was not always possible to tell the difference between the wretchedly poor and the wretchedly ill, there was usually little more than the odd clearing of the throat and following spit for him to worry about. Few of these poor devils appeared to suffer too badly from the flu, which given the overcrowded world in which they lived, seemed odd.
After the usual tip toeing through the crowds, with the attendant oaths cursed his way when one of his huge boots made accidental contact with a foot or shin, he spotted his man, complete with green muffler. But as he made his way towards him, he caught the eye for the briefest moment of a second man with the same well-fed look about him. The man immediately looked away. A tad too quickly. And he was too well dressed in a decent looking suit to be a bona fide member of the engine room fraternity.
Nash’s only prison term had come about from him single-handedly tackling half a dozen policemen who had made the mistake of attacking Ruby and a sister-in-arms during a Suffragette riot. He had never been caught by the police during his long spell as a Victorian hard man thanks to his intuition for smelling trouble.
And he now smelled a rodent that was all too prevalent in the slums, but this one did not have the customary tail and whiskers. Instead of making his way to his contact, he turned around, and when close to the door deliberately tripped over the foot of a poor wretch, grabbing at the door and swinging round quickly as if desperately regaining his balance. Again he caught the same man looking at him for the briefest moment before he looked away. The man would not be seeing Nash again. But Nash would be seeing him.
If this man was a rat, he had obviously followed the objector on to the ferry with a view to seeing who his contact was. Had the man already been given a description of him? He would be easy enough to spot. He was pretty distinctive after all. There were not many men in the East End, or anywhere else for that matter, who were in their fifties, over six feet tall with the physique of a brute half his age.
The government man would not have been stupid enough to come after him on his own. And he would want to arrest the objector too. There would be others, probably lurking just out of sight from the ferry. The agent would have to make a signal to them to rush on to the ferry to make their arrests, or perhaps they would hang back on the quayside to grab their prey as they came off the boat. Either way, this man could not be allowed anywhere within sight of the quayside.
If the unseen men were indeed in position, they were not the only ones lurking with intent. Nash stood just out of sight of the engine room exit and took a piece of lethal weaponry out of his pocket.
On leaving the engine room he had quickly reconnoitred his surroundings. The ferry was far from busy with traffic. Few men with their horses and carts were within sight.
The half a million horses seconded by the army during the war had left a shortage of four legged friends everywhere else. The law of supply and demand had pushed prices up for even the sorriest dobbin, the result of which was that many small businesses in the East End were now run out of a hand cart. And this limited the area over which the business could take its transactions. As for motor vehicles, these were a rare beast indeed this far into East London. Consequently the Woolwich Ferry may have been free, but the irony was this was a gift horse that many had to look in the mouth.
This left Nash with mixed feelings. There were few faces around to see what he was up to, but the lack of horses and carts meant there was little cover under which illicit deeds could be committed. Nash felt rather exposed on the deck of the large vessel so was well aware this was neither the time nor place to try and get any information out of the man spying on him.
And he had no particular desire to hurt the man any more than was necessary. After all, there was a chance the fellow was not from the government. He could just be some poor bugger who was so bored sitting in the engine room all day that he liked to look at everyone who came in. And maybe he had treated himself to a new whistle and flute in the not too dim and distant, and it had not yet had time to grow threadbare.
But Nash did not have to wait long to have his suspicions confirmed when the man alighted from the engine room within seconds. And with his back to Nash he stopped and peered up the ship. Nash took a quick look around to ensure no one was watching and before the man had a chance to change the direction of his search, calmly walked forward and without ceremony hit him behind both knees with his dockers’ marlin spike. The force of the blow had the man airborne head back for a moment before crumpling on to the floor, face up. Nash bent down on one knee and punched the man once, to ensure his consciousness left him for a while. He then dragged his quarry away to the side of the boat, grabbed a long discarded moth-eaten old horse blanket that was lying nearby and covered him with it the best he could. The man wasn’t fully out of sight, his legs and feet protruding, but it was the best Nash could do in the circumstances, and it should be sufficient in the short term, which was all he needed.
“Well my old mate, you were under cover, and now you are again,” sneered Nash.
He then popped his head back through the engine door. There was not time for any subtle manoeuvrings so with the grimmest of expressions on his face Nash managed to combine both a shout and whisper in a deep voiced growl full of urgency.
“Richard!”
It was Nash’s attempt at a bit of cloak & dagger stuff. With a nod to his favourite novel, The 39 Steps, his password for the objectors he met on the ferry, was Richard, after Richard Hannay.
It was not the most common name in these parts. East Enders’ pr
opensity for giving people nicknames meant that any parent would think twice about giving their offspring such a name. The only Richard most in the East End had ever heard of was Richard the Third, and this was too easily morphed into the Turd. Unsurprisingly, John Jameson was the only man to look up.
Nash waved aggressively at his charge to get up and head towards him. Nash was not a man to disobey at the best of times, and the immediately intimidated Quaker was on his feet and out the engine room in double quick time.
As Jameson stepped outside, Nash grabbed his arm, introduced himself as Smith, and pulled him to the side of the boat where the unconscious man lay under the blanket. He knew the Quaker would be horrified by the violence meted out to this man, especially if it were explained it was done on his behalf, so Nash casually shrugged as he told the conscientious objector not to worry, the man on the ground was just a drunk sleeping it off.
Nash quickly explained that he had reason to believe there was a group of men on the quayside at his usual disembarkation spot, Silvertown, waiting to arrest them. So the plan was to stay on the ship when it docked, then ride it back to Woolwich, where they would alight and make their way through the foot tunnel back to Silvertown.
Jameson asked why they didn’t simply make their way to the safe house from Woolwich, thus avoiding any risk of arrest at Silvertown.
“And what happens to me horse?” sneered Nash aggressively. “Can’t just leave the poor little sod can I? He ain’t even mine. He’s worth a few bob an’ all, what with horses being in such short supply now. Besides, Woolwich is the back of beyond. It’d take bleeding hours to get where we’re going from there without horse. And I ain’t got all day to molly coddle the likes of you!”
Jameson decided he would keep his thoughts to himself in future.
Half an hour later the two men were at the top of the stairs at the Silvertown exit of the foot tunnel. The less than fit Quaker had his hands on his knees gasping for oxygen, though as he breathed in the putrid smell of the local outfall sewer, he wondered whether this was indeed a sensible policy. His nose wrinkled while he wondered why they’d had to run the length of the tunnel and then take the steps two at a time when a perfectly respectable lift was available.
Nash saw his distress, caught his eye and winked conspiratorially.
“Keeps your stamina up boy. You never know in this game when you might need to run longer than some other bastard. Not quicker mind, but longer. Get my meaning?”
Nash didn’t wait for an answer. He removed his coat and shirt, leaving just the thinnest white vest clinging to his muscled torso; then whipped off his belt. The clothing was given to his startled new valet, before a marlin spike was removed from the coat and stuffed down the side of Nash’s trousers. Some words of explanation were necessary.
“I’m going to get me horse and cart but I got to walk past the characters who are out to get us see, so it’s best if I look the part.”
With this, Nash bent down and grabbed some oozing filth from the gutter with his right hand, before slamming the disgusting mix into his body and rubbing it around his chest and then up his left arm. Then one final piece of something repellent was slapped round both cheeks.
He told his charge to stay out of sight inside the tunnel entrance. He would be back for him shortly. But if he wasn’t back within twenty minutes, he wouldn’t be coming back, in which case Jameson should leg it back through the tunnel, and make his way back to the No Conscription Fellowship the best way he could.
A group of builders, dirty from a day’s hard graft, were coming along towards the tunnel entrance. Nash guessed they had just finished a shift at the George V Dock, which was under construction just to the north. One or two broke off and headed down the tunnel stairs. The rest headed west, either for the nearby railway station or the pub. Nash eased out of the tunnel entrance into the throng and made his way along the street with them. As they passed the ferry quay Nash scanned the alley to the side and sure enough, outside the front entrance of a soap-works, were two men hanging about looking bored while each kept a surreptitious eye in the direction of the ferry. They looked similar to the man Nash had left under the horse blanket. He had expected a larger number, but then he supposed wryly that needs must in war. One of them threw an uninterested glance at the group of dirty workmen passing along the street in front of him, before returning his gaze towards the ferry.
Minutes later Nash was paying the ex-soldier his shilling. He then jumped up on his cart and took the reins from his employee. The man touched his cap in deference and went to go on his way, but Nash shouted after him.
“Oi! Can you catch?”
“Caught a package at Passchendale a twelve month since,” said the man bitterly. “That was the end of me cricket. Then I caught the sodding flu. That nearly saw me off an’ all. Yeah reckon I can catch all right.”
Nash simply nodded and flicked a threepenny bit with his thumb, sending it accurately in a gentle arc towards the man’s right side, so it was easy for him to catch it in the hand unencumbered by the crutch.
“That’s thruppence more. Know the alley down the side of the ferry where the soap works is?” he asked. The man nodded. “Two fellers hanging about down there. Tell ‘em their mate on the ferry’s out cold under horse blanket. Got it?”
The young man nodded, showing no sign of surprise or enquiry, or any other emotion for that matter. Nash continued.
“Take your time getting down there mind. I need time to get well off.”
The order was received with a sneer. Nash guessed the man was thinking to himself that everything he now did took plenty of time.
With a flick of his wrist Nash had the reins tell his horse it was time to go. He would pass the two government men, but they would not be taking any notice of someone travelling in his direction, towards the ferry. Though if they did, Nash had the reins in one hand, his marlin spike in the other.
He didn’t really care if his message was delivered or not, though it would appeal to his sense of humour if it was. He imagined the look on the two men’s faces. But if the bitter young perisher just stayed outside the hotel or scarpered off home, the threepenny bit was no more than the tip he deserved. The lad deserved a lot more.
Chapter 9
“Ah! You may laugh my boy, but it’s no joke being funny with the influenza.”
Mr Punch wrapped up in blankets
in front of the fire, eating gruel,
Punch Magazine, 1918
The Nashes thought the world of Charlie Chaplin. As well as enjoying his films, they had heard how military hospitals were now projecting his comedies on to the ceilings of wards so badly injured men who were unable to move, could watch them from their beds. Thus the war, and perhaps even their pain, ceased to exist for a few brief, precious moments in time. Charlie was a great hero with the boys in the trenches, and was clearly important to the war effort for his ability to make his fellow countrymen laugh, and for making personal appearances at huge war bond fund-raising events in America. But the British press hounded him as a shirker. They and their government string-pullers had to make an example out of any fit and healthy Englishman of fighting age, not in a reserved occupation, who was not in the trenches. And the more they did this, the more the Nashes loved the little genius.
Nash preferred his early, more unsophisticated stuff, where many an altercation ended with Charlie giving some wretch, often a policeman a swift kick up the backside, followed by a chase which saw the little hero make a successful getaway. Ruby preferred Charlie’s more cleverly crafted recent work, and would tease her husband by asking him if he preferred the earlier films because they reminded him of his own early adult life. From what she had heard from both her husband and other sources, he had spent much of his time being chased by the police through the mean streets of Whitechapel. With so much practice she wondered why her husband was not quicker on his feet or had not been a
ble to master Charlie’s skidding stiff legged change of direction?
But such saucy comments were often in retaliation. Ruby was from Southampton originally, but had settled in South London on returning to Britain after the Titanic disaster. During the summer of 1912 she had lived no more than a couple of miles from the great clown, and worked in a Bermondsey biscuit factory, a stone’s throw from where Charlie and his brother were living at the time in Kennington. She knew several people who claimed to have lived in the same street as the Chaplin boys, used the same pubs, saw Charlie perform in the local theatres and knew him well. Nash was his usual sceptical, argumentative self. He told his wife that if everyone who said they lived next to Charlie actually did, Kennington must have been a bloody crowded place. And given he seems to have drunk in every boozer in the Elephant & Castle area, Nash was surprised Charlie was ever in a fit state to tread the boards. No wonder he was so good at playing an inebriate. Maybe he wasn’t acting?
But it was all good natured ribbing. They never got to calling each other ‘darling’. And they had both equally loved last year’s Easy Street and The Rink, though Ruby had noted that her husband had laughed loudest when Charlie encased a policeman’s head in a gas lamp in the former film, and had caused people on roller skates to fly through the air to land painfully on their backsides in the latter.
The couple had just been to the early evening screening of Charlie’s new film, A Dog’s Life. Throughout the war they had got into the habit of going to the ‘pictures’ at this time of day to enjoy a bit of heating as well as the films. Every such visit was a shovelful of rare, precious coal not used at home. And although the longer days and milder temperatures of summer meant this was no longer necessary, they liked to keep their cinema dates as a regular day and time. Their lives during the war had become so frenetic, with quality time together snatched as and when they could, they liked to maintain any semblance of routine that was feasible.