Rory was a stevedore through and through. Every day for as long he could remember, he started work at the crack of dawn and ended his day when dusk approached. It was hard graft, but it paid better than many of the other jobs in the city. Thanks to his bulky physique, the man, Johnnie, who ran the dockworker’s pressgangs, had picked him on the spot.
That had been five years ago. Before that, Rory had been a thief preying on the wealthy in the West End until he nearly got caught. It could have cost him his life since the sentence for the crime of stealing was en par with murder, resulting in an ignominious hanging at Tyburn Tree.
That had been the day he had met his wife Mary. Originally from Yorkshire, she was a comely matron who had sought out her luck in the greatest city in the world. She had been disappointed. None of the tales told had borne any truth. London was a hard place with even harder people. The streets were full of beggars, crippled war veterans and drunks. Drunkenness was a sickness that scourged the thoroughfares and taverns like a plague. Mary made do though. She had met the pug-eared man she fell in love with and somehow they made ends meet. Two children and a third on the way bore testament to their happy union.
“Alright, lads, time to finish up. Have another drink before you go,” said the overseer. It was an old trick that Rory knew fleeced their pockets of coin. A large barrel of gin stood on the dockside. The men could help themselves to as much of it as they wanted throughout the day. This was not some way to enhance their sense of duty and loyalty, but simply a way to milk money out of them and keep them mellow.
The man who ran the unit of dockworkers Rory worked for also owned the tavern called the Duke of Wellington. The place was the source of the liquor. Before they got paid, the barrel would be measured for consumption and divided amongst the workers to be deducted from their pay.
With the last of the cargo loaded onto the carts that would be taken to the warehouses by another union of men, Rory and the other men followed the foreman to the inn. It was a ten-minute walk that led them past many stone-built warehouses. There were other groups of dockworkers moving in similar clusters to other pubs or places to receive their pay. Rory wondered how much he had earned. They had hit the quota and emptied the ship’s cargo hold. Surely, that would result in higher wages than the day before.
The Duke of Wellington was like any other tavern in the docks. Women of ill repute milled about outside, eagerly seeking new patrons with pockets full of coin. They were fast, too. The moment the money was handed over by the overseer, they would be next to the unsuspecting victim before he could spend it all on gin. It was the age-old conundrum: quick relief or a long oblivion. Most men wanted both.
The inside of the inn was dank and smoke-riddled. The reek of stale sweat was everywhere. Men sat at tables drinking and playing cards. Others lay on the floor in puddles of their own drink and urine. Off-and-on, one of the men working in the pub would hurl a limp body out onto the street. In the back, a group of off-duty sailors celebrated their homecoming with raucous shouts.
They boasted about the money they had made and how they would spend it. This brought on the ladies of the night like wasps to a feast. London was a spitting image of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was about to change. Already, the virtue and piousness of the great Queen Victoria seeped into all corners of society. The Victorian Age would be known for patriotism, virtue and honour.
Rory walked to the far side of the room to where a fire burned in a large hearth. Despite it being spring, it was still cold as winter outside. His clothes were damp from the light drizzle that had accompanied him for most of the day. A day that had once shown such promise in the morning, when the sun had shone to the east.
That was London - sunbeams in the morning and rain in the afternoon. The fire made crackling and hissing sounds. Occasionally, the odd charred piece of wood would pop, emitting fiery sparks. It gave Rory comfort when the steam rose up from his clothing as his body gradually warmed.
“How long do you think we will have to wait?” asked the man who had worked alongside Rory for most of the day. He was new to the gang and overly keen to make friends. For one or another reason, he had latched onto Rory like an irritating tick. He was an affable looking sort with many scars on his face. It made Rory think what kind of work the man had pursued before becoming a dockworker.
Rory shrugged. “I dunno.”
“You’re not the talkative type, are you?”
“What’s there to talk about? We do our jobs, get paid and go home.”
“There’s nothing wrong with exchanging a few words with a mate.”
Rory arched his eyebrows. “You’re no mate. I don’t even know ye.”
The other man bristled. “If you’d bloody talk to me that would change.”
“What’s yer name then?” asked Rory. He felt a little sorry for the new man. He had been that once and it had been hard. The men working the docks were a very close-knit bunch that hated change. It was stupid really because there were always new workers arriving. The mortality rate was horrific. Not a week went by without somebody being stabbed to death or succumbed to disease.
“I already told ye this morning.”
“I was working and wasn’t listening.”
“The name’s Jake.”
Rory stretched out his hand to the squat stocky man with the short-cropped hair and a thick scar across his face. “Good to meet ye, Jake. I’m Rory.”
Jake shook his hand. “I know, ye told me remember.”
Rory laughed. “Sorry, I’m a little preoccupied as of late. The missus is pregnant with our third child.”
“Oh, right. I wouldn’t know what that’s like. Never had a missus.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Jake shrugged. “No matter, there’s plenty going ‘round in this place.” He pointed at one of the buxom wenches trying to coax a reluctant stevedore to sample her charms. She was dressed in a cheap replica of an evening dress. The neckline was low and open, revealing her milky cleavage. The fabric was stained and faded. The end of the sleeves had dark smudges on them and had begun to fray.
“I wouldn’t if I were ye,” said Rory.
“Why not. When I have my wages, I’ll be taking that one out back into the alley for a good three-penny upright.” He sniggered at the prospect of pounding the unsavoury woman against a brick wall.
“You’ll be up to your neck with the clap.”
Jake cast a cut eye as he fumbled in his trouser pocket. “Not if I use this.” He dangled something in front of Rory’s face. “It’s a sheath made of sheep’s stomach. You put it over yer willie. Stops anything nasty getting through. If ye get my meaning.”
Rory never got to respond. A door at the back of the tavern opened. A large bald man walked into the main room. Behind him came two burly looking men carrying a chest. When he reached a table in the centre, the man called, Johnnie, commanded the people sitting there to clear off. After two prostitutes with their prospective clients scampered off to the other side of the room, the bald man sat down. He grunted something to his companions who then promptly placed the chest next to him and opened it.
“Alright, lads, it’s time to collect yer wages.”
There was a rush of eager feet. In moments, something that resembled a straight line had formed in front of the table. The Duke of Wellington’s landlord, and leader of the dockworkers, ordered himself a tankard of ale before he commenced with the dispensing of the wages. He was ruthlessly efficient, dispatching any man who complained.
Each time he dipped his hand into the chest and handed over the coins, he made some markings into his ledger. “Next,” was what he shouted when he was done. Occasionally, he would exchange a few words with the men he knew. Otherwise, the entire process was unceremonious and cold.
“Rory Bennett, well I never. Can’t seem to get rid of ye. You’re as strong as an ox, ye are,” said the landlord when it was Rory’s turn.
Rory scrutinized the huge man with the dark ferrety eyes that scanned
him like rapiers. His baldpate gleamed in the weak light like a cannonball. The shirt he wore was sweat-stained around his armpits in murky patches. Dark chest hair protruded from the opening of his shirt. It appeared to Rory that all of the hair on the man’s head had disappeared only to find its way there.
When he was about to respond, the other man ripped a raucous fart that reverberated on the wooden chair. The patrons closest to him laughed loudly and held up their tankards, toasting his formidable flatulence.
“Got the morbs, ave ye? Dunno why. Ye lot sure buttered up the bacon today with all that unloading ye did. The ship’s cargo hold is empty. There’s a pretty penny in it for ye today, Rory. Enough for ye to get your hands on a full mug of gin and some pretty crumpet.”
“Speaking of the gin, sir.” Rory pressed his eyebrows together. “It’s not fair that I have to pay for it.”
The landlord vaulted his eyebrows. “What, that’s London’s finest, that is. Got to keep the wheels greased if you want them to go ‘round and ‘round. That’s my policy. Gin is what keeps this nation great.”
“Here, here,” shouted a group of his sycophants.
“Thing is, sir, I don’t drink any of it. I’d rather the money than the drink. I’ve got a babe…”
“Now, ye listen here, Bennett. It’s the way things are done. If ye don’t take your share, tough. The other blokes have all the more. Stop wasting my time. Here’s yer money and be gone.” He dipped his hand into the chest and counted off some coppers. After which, he held them out in his meaty paw.
Rory thought of pressing the matter further, but seeing the stubbornness play on his boss’s face, he thought better of it. There was no use. He took the money and turned. He brushed past Jake as he headed for the door.
“I’ll see ye tomorrow bright and early. We’ve got another consignment coming in,” shouted the landlord.
“For how much longer, sir? I have heard that unionized groups are gradually talking over the docks.”
Johnnie gave his worker a toothless grin. “Ye leave that up to me. I will deal with them. Good old Johnnie will always look after his own. Now be off with ye and get back here, like I said, bright and early.”
Rory lifted his hand to indicate that he had heard him and vacated the premises.
It took Rory nearly an hour to walk home from the docks. He lived in the rookery of St. Giles. The streets were like narrow canyons of blackened brick tenements that blocked out the sun in the day. All that remained were the dull greys of smoke and soot.
Dead cats and dogs littered the street. When Rory did come across a live mongrel, he’d avoid it lest it bite him and give him rabies. The ground was covered in a treacle-like scum. The entire environ was like an open sewer. The stench of human excrement invaded his nostrils right up to his brain. It was a route he took every day but he could never get used to it.
When Rory finally reached the front door to the building where he lived, he looked up. The windows to his apartment were so blackened with dirt that they hardly let the light in. His wife had tried to scrub them clean but to no avail. The muck stuck to the panes like a second skin. The building was owned by one of the many vampires of the poor that came in the guise of the nobility. Blood sucking leaches that held onto prime London property often making up to a one hundred per cent return on their investments.
“Seven shillings, blossom,” he said when he entered the two-room tenement in Manchester Court. The notion of calling the place a court made him sick.
There was a meagre fire burning behind a grate in the wall. The walls drew moisture out of the saturated plaster, creating wisps of fog when it came into contact with the heat of the fire. Rory and his family belonged to the fortunate ones. They at least owned two beds - one for the children and one for the parents. Also, their home did not have that many holes in the walls. The few they did have were stuffed with old newspapers to keep out the chill.
His wife smiled at him. Despite their predicament, she was permanently in good spirits. She always said that God had given her a good hard-working man who did not overindulge in alcohol and had given her healthy offspring, which was a blessing in itself. Out of ten births seven died in London.
Rory placed the coins on the table with a thwack. He asked about the children that slept on the bed on the other side of the room and sat down. His wife, Mary ladled some stew into a bowl and handed him a hunk of bread. While he ate, he spoke to her of his day and of the future.
Chapter 5
Stirling stared out the coach window at the rolling hills of the lush green English countryside. Pulled by the furious gallop of four horses, the sights and sounds seemed to blur into an amalgam of splendiferous colours, pretty jingles and the pounding of horses’ hooves. Adjusting his vision a little, Stirling managed to get a better glimpse of the racing landscape, which seemed lovelier than the most meticulously painted work of art.
The opulence and health of the passing verdure was so different to the shaggy dryness of the subcontinent of India, where he had been posted for many years in the governor’s regiment. The scent of the grass and the sound of birdsong reminded him just how homesick he had been and how he had longed to be back home.
And as spring brings fresh life and an end to the cold, so too, like the altering of seasons, would he find his destiny changing forever. Passing a pink cherry blossom with heavy and lazy bloom, Stirling thought of Clementine.
The colour on the tree reminded him of the ribbons and ruffles of her intricately embroidered dress. The tree’s splendour made him recreate her loveliness; her innocent perfection described by her manner and way, as if, she too, was just as magnificent and pure as the spring itself.
There had been a few ladies back in India. It had surprised Stirling to find so many of them about. Wherever there was a barracks or a place of administration, European women frequented them as if they belonged there. Many a marriage had been forged in the dust and dry grass of the subcontinent.
Also, the bibbi reigned freely. For gentlemen of a more lax and oriental taste, local women had become very popular among the white European men. This was something their British counterpart did their upmost to suppress. By the time Stirling had left, they had made great strides in bringing Victorian virtue to one of the more savage corners of the empire.
A woman’s role in society had transformed a great deal along with the fashion of the time that had changed dramatically since he had left. The necklines of the day dresses seemed to perpetually drop even lower into a V-shape, causing the need to cover the bust area with a chemisette. Bodices began to extend over the hips, while the sleeves opened further and increased in fullness. The volume and width of the skirt continued to surge when rows of flounces were added.
In essence, a woman’s clothing was not utilitarian in the least, but only there to create effect. As was the person that wore it – she was a mere extension of her husband or father and, unlike in the past, no longer required to represent him in business or other enterprises like in times of old.
Actually, all facets of Victorian life were changing fast. There was talk of dissolving the East India Company’s control over India and making it part of the crown’s responsibility. It was a huge development that would alter two hundred and fifty years of company dominance.
Train tracks had begun to criss-cross the countryside and soon it would be possible to get from London to Manchester in a little under seven hours. Mass production was everywhere. Shops were full of wares and all of them had one thing in common: they bore the stamp Made in Great Britain upon them.
England was doing well, he thought. Stirling looked out of the window and saw the ornate wrought iron gates embellished with a golden coat of arms that heralded the entrance to the grounds belonging to one of the most splendid country estates in the whole of England. High Weald, he mused. His father’s ancestral home in the country.
He swallowed deeply when the coach passed the barrier to his father’s lands that stretched as far as the eye
could see. He was one of the few men that had received his title from King Henry the Eighth and survived that tumultuous period to pass on the peerage into posterity.
As the carriage progressed, acre upon acre of dense and unruly woodland rose out of the ground in any which way it wanted to. That was how the place got the name High Weald. Stirling studied the thick woods that spread out like a shock of uncombed hair on an unkempt little boy’s head. He had loved wandering the forests when he was little. It had been one of the rare pleasures he had had as a child when growing up there.
He felt a cold shiver slide down his spine when he saw a structure appear from around the slight curve in the road. It always surprised him how something so large could remain hidden from view for such a long time. It was a place he should love, but he couldn’t. When he had lived there, he had hardly ever known happiness. In fact, the place oozed melancholy ever since she had died – his sweet mother who had passed away giving birth to him. Stirling always felt that his father and two brothers blamed him for their mother’s fate.
A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events Page 5