A Place Called Freedom (16 page)

She smiled. “Hungry, eh? Been working hard?”

“Just taking a little exercise to give us an appetite,” said Dermot.

Mack had no money to pay for his supper, but Lennox gave all the coal heavers credit against their earnings. After tonight, Mack resolved, he would pay cash on the nail for everything: he did not want to get into debt.

He sat beside Peg. “How’s business?” he said facetiously.

She took his question seriously. “Me and Cora tumbled a rich old gent this afternoon so we’re having the evening off.”

Mack found it odd to be friends with a thief. He knew what drove her to it: she had no alternative but starvation. All the same something in him, some residue of his mother’s attitudes, made him disapprove.

Peg was small and frail, with a bony frame and pretty blue eyes, but she had the callous air of a hardened criminal, and that was how people treated her. Mack suspected that her tough exterior was protective coloring: below the surface there was probably just a frightened little girl who had no one in the world to take care of her.

Black Mary brought him soup with oysters floating in it, a slab of bread and a tankard of dark beer, and he fell on it like a wolf.

The other coal heavers drifted in. There was no sign of Lennox, which was unusual: he was normally playing cards or dice with his customers. Mack wished he would hurry up. Mack was impatient to find out how much money he had made this week. He guessed Lennox was keeping the men waiting for their wages so they would spend more at the bar.

Cora came in after an hour or so. She looked as striking as ever, in a mustard-colored outfit with black trimmings. All the men greeted her, but to Mack’s surprise she came and sat with him. “I hear you had a profitable afternoon,” he said.

“Easy money,” she said. “A man old enough to know better.”

“You’d better tell me how you do it, so I don’t fall victim to someone like you.”

She gave him a flirtatious look. “You’ll never have to pay girls, Mack, I can promise you that”

“Tell me anyway—I’m curious.”

“The simplest way is to pick up a wealthy drunk, get him amorous, take him down a dark alley then run off with his money.”

“Is that what you did today?”

“No, this was better. We found an empty house and bribed the caretaker. I played the role of a bored housewife—Peg was my maid. We took him to the house, pretending I lived there. I got his clothes off and got him into bed, then Peg came rushing in to say my husband was back unexpectedly.”

Peg laughed. “Poor old geezer, you should have seen his face, he was terrified. He hid in the wardrobe!”

“And we left, with his wallet, his watch and all his clothes.”

“He’s probably still in that wardrobe!” said Peg, and they both went off into gales of laughter.

The coal heavers’ wives began to appear, many of them with babies in their arms and children clinging to their skirts. Some had the spirit and beauty of youth, but others looked weary and underfed, the beaten wives of violent and drunken men. Mack guessed they were all here in the hope of getting hold of some of the wages before all the money was drunk, gambled or stolen by whores. Bridget Riley came in with her five children and sat with Dermot and Mack.

Lennox finally showed up at midnight.

He carried a leather sack full of coins and a pair of pistols, presumably to protect him from robbery. The coal heavers, most of whom were drunk by this time, cheered him like a conquering hero when he came in, and Mack felt a momentary contempt toward his workmates: why did they show gratitude for what was no more than their due?

Lennox was a surly man of about thirty, wearing knee boots and a flannel waistcoat with no shirt. He was fit and muscular from carrying heavy kegs of beer and spirits. There was a cruel twist to his mouth. He had a distinctive odor, a sweet smell like rotting fruit. Mack noticed Peg flinch involuntarily as he went by: she was scared of the man.

Lennox pulled a table into a corner and put the sack down and the pistols next to it. The men and women crowded around, pushing and shoving, as if afraid Lennox would run out of cash before their turn came. Mack hung back: it was beneath his dignity to scramble for the wages he had earned.

He heard the harsh voice of Lennox raised over the hubbub. “Each man has earned a pound and eleven pence this week, before bar bills.”

Mack was not sure he had heard right. They had unloaded two ships, some fifteen hundred score, or thirty thousand sacks of coal, giving each man a gross income of about six pounds. How could it have been reduced to little more than a pound each?

There was a groan of disappointment from the men, but none of them questioned the figure. As Lennox began to count out individual payments, Mack said: “Just a minute. How do you work that out?”

Lennox looked up with an angry scowl. “You’ve unloaded one thousand four hundred and forty-five score, which gives each man six pounds and fivepence gross. Deduct fifteen shillings a day for drink—”

“What?” Mack interrupted. “Fifteen shillings a day?” That was three-quarters of their earnings!

Dermot Riley muttered his agreement. “Damned robbery, it is.” He did not say it very loudly, but there were murmurs of agreement from some of the other men and women.

“My commission is sixteen pence per man per ship,” Lennox went on. “There’s another sixteen pence for the captain’s tip, six pence per day for rent of a shovel—”

“Rent of a shovel?” Mack exploded.

“You’re new here and you don’t know the rules, McAsh,” Lennox grated. “Why don’t you shut your damned mouth and let me get on with it, or no one will get paid.”

Mack was outraged, but reason told him Lennox had not invented this system tonight: it was obviously well established, and the men must have accepted it. Peg tugged at his sleeve and said in a low voice: “Don’t cause trouble, Jock—Lennox will make it worse for you somehow.”

Mack shrugged and kept quiet. However, his protest had struck a chord among the others, and Dermot Riley now raised his voice. “I didn’t drink fifteen shillings’ worth of liquor a day,” he said.

His wife added: “For sure he didn’t.”

“Nor did I,” said another man. “Who could? A man would burst with all that beer!”

Lennox replied angrily. “That’s how much I sent on board for you—do you think I can keep a tally of what every man drinks every day?”

Mack said: “If not, you’re the only innkeeper in London who can’t!” The men laughed.

Lennox was infuriated by Mack’s mockery and the laughter of the men. With a thunderous look he said: “The system is, you pay for fifteen shillings’ worth of liquor, whether you drink it or not.”

Mack stepped up to the table. “Well, I have a system too,” he said. “I don’t pay for liquor that I haven’t asked for and haven’t drunk. You may not have kept count but I have, and I can tell you exactly what I owe you.”

“So can I,” said another man. He was Charlie Smith, an English-born Negro with a flat Newcastle accent. “I’ve drunk eighty-three tankards of the small beer you sell in here for fourpence a pint. That’s twenty-seven shillings and eightpence for the entire week, not fifteen shillings a day.”

Lennox said: “You’re lucky to be paid at all, you black villain, you ought to be a slave in chains.”

Charlie’s face darkened. “I’m an Englishman and a Christian, and I’m a better man than you because I’m honest,” he said with controlled fury.

Dermot Riley said: “I can tell you exactly how much I’ve drunk, too.”

Lennox was getting irate. “If you don’t watch yourselves you’ll get nothing at all, any of you,” he said.

It crossed Mack’s mind that he ought to cool things down. He tried to think of something conciliatory to say. Then he caught sight of Bridget Riley and her hungry children, and indignation got the better of him. He said to Lennox: “You’ll not leave that table until you’ve paid what you owe.”

Lennox’s eyes fell to his pistols.

With a swift movement Mack swept the guns to the floor. “You’ll not escape by shooting me either, you damn thief,” he said angrily.

Lennox looked like a cornered mastiff. Mack wondered if he had gone too far: perhaps he should have left room for a face-saving compromise. But it was too late now. Lennox had to back down. He had made the coal heavers drunk and they would kill him unless he paid them.

He sat back on his chair, narrowed his eyes, gave Mack a look of pure hatred and said: “You’ll suffer for this, McAsh, I swear by God you will.”

Mack said mildly: “Come on, Lennox, the men are only asking you to pay them what they’re due.”

Lennox was not mollified, but he gave in. Scowling darkly, he began to count out money. He paid Charlie Smith first, then Dermot Riley, then Mack, taking their word for the amount of liquor they had consumed.

Mack stepped away from the table full of elation. He had three pounds and nine shillings in his hand: if he put half of it aside for Esther he would still be flush.

Other coal heavers made guesses at how much they had drunk, but Lennox did not argue, except in the case of Sam Potter, a huge fat boy from Cork, who claimed he had drunk only thirty quarts, causing uproarious laughter from the others: he eventually settled for three times that.

An air of jubilation spread among the men and their women as they pocketed their earnings. Several came up to Mack and slapped him on the back, and Bridget Riley kissed him. He realized he had done something remarkable, but he feared that the drama was not yet ended. Lennox had given in too easily.

As the last man was being paid, Mack picked up Lennox’s guns from the floor. He blew the flintlocks clear of powder, so that they would not fire, then placed them on the table.

Lennox took his disarmed pistols and the nearly empty money bag and stood up. The room went quiet. He went to the door that led to his private rooms. Everyone watched him intently, as if they were afraid he might yet find a way to take the money back. He turned at the door. “Go home, all of you,” he said malevolently. “And don’t come back on Monday. There’ll be no work for you. You’re all dismissed.”

Mack lay awake most of the night, worrying. Some of the coal heavers said Lennox would have forgotten all about it by Monday morning, but Mack doubted that. Lennox did not seem the type of man to swallow defeat; and he could easily get another sixteen strong young men to form his gang.

It was Mack’s fault. The coal heavers were like oxen, strong and stupid and easily led: they would not have rebelled against Lennox if Mack had not encouraged them. Now, he felt, it was up to him to set matters right.

He got up early on Sunday morning and went into the other room. Dermot and his wife lay on a mattress and the five children slept together in the opposite corner. Mack shook Dermot awake. “We’ve got to find work for our gang before tomorrow,” Mack said.

Dermot got up. Bridget mumbled from the bed: “Wear something respectable, now, if you want to impress an undertaker.” Dermot put on an old red waistcoat, and he loaned Mack the blue silk neckcloth he had bought for his wedding. They called for Charlie Smith on the way. Charlie had been a coal heaver for five years and he knew everyone. He put on his best blue coat and they went together to Wapping.

The muddy streets of the waterfront neighborhood were almost deserted. The bells of London’s hundreds of churches called the devout to their prayers, but most of the sailors and stevedores and warehousemen were enjoying their day of rest, and they stayed at home. The brown river Thames lapped lazily at the deserted wharves, and rats sauntered boldly along the foreshore.

All the coal heaving undertakers were tavern keepers. The three men went first to the Frying Pan, a few yards from the Sun. They found the landlord boiling a ham in the yard. The smell made Mack’s mouth water. “What ho, Harry,” Charlie addressed him cheerfully.

He gave them a sour look. “What do you boys want, if it’s not beer?”

“Work,” Charlie replied. “Have you got a ship to uncoal tomorrow?”

“Yes, and a gang to do it, thanks all the same.”

They left. Dermot said: “What was the matter with him? He looked at us like lepers.”

“Too much gin last night,” Charlie speculated.

Mack feared it might have been something more sinister, but he kept his thoughts to himself for the moment. “Let’s go into the King’s Head,” he said.

Several coal heavers were drinking beer at the bar and greeted Charlie by name. “Are you busy, my lads?” Charlie said. “We’re looking for a ship.”

The landlord overheard. “You men been working for Sidney Lennox at the Sun?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t need us next week,” Charlie replied.

“Nor do I,” said the landlord.

As they went out Charlie said: “We’ll try Buck Delaney at the Swan. He runs two or three gangs at a time.”

The Swan was a busy tavern with stables, a coffee room, a coal yard and several bars. They found the Irish landlord in his private room overlooking the courtyard. Delaney had been a coal heaver himself in his youth, though now he wore a wig and a lace cravat to take his breakfast of coffee and cold beef. “Let me give you a tip, me boys,” he said. “Every undertaker in London has heard what happened at the Sun last night. There’s not one will employ you, Sidney Lennox has made sure of that.”

Mack’s heart sank. He had been afraid of something like this.

“If I were you,” Delaney went on, “I’d take ship and get out of town for a year or two. When you come back it will all be forgotten.”

Dermot said angrily: “Are the coal heavers always to be robbed by you undertakers, then?”

If Delaney was offended he did not show it. “Look around you, me boy,” he said mildly, indicating with a vague wave the silver coffee service, the carpeted room, and the bustling business that paid for it all. “I didn’t get this by being fair to people.”

Mack said: “What’s to stop us going to the captains ourselves, and undertaking to unload ships?”

“Everything,” said Delaney. “Now and again there comes along a coal heaver like you, McAsh, with a bit more gumption than the rest, and he wants to run his own gang, and cut out the undertaker and do away with liquor payments and all, and all. But there’s too many people making too much money out of the present arrangement.” He shook his head. “You’re not the first to protest against the system, McAsh, and you won’t be the last.”