A Place Called Freedom Read online

  The bar smelled of tobacco ash and spilled beer. She sat in a corner and sipped her ale, wondering why she had come here. It was a place of violence and cruelty, and she was playing a dangerous game. What would these brutal people do if they realized she was an upper-class lady dressed as a man?

  She was here partly because her curiosity was an irresistible passion. She had always been fascinated by whatever was forbidden, even as a child. The sentence "It's no place for a lady" was like a red rag to a bull. She could not help opening any door marked "No entry." Her curiosity was as urgent as her sexuality, and to repress it was as difficult as to stop kissing Jay.

  But the main reason was McAsh. He had always been interesting. Even as a small boy he had been different: independent-minded, disobedient, always questioning what he was told. In adulthood he was fulfilling his promise. He had defied the Jamissons, he had succeeded in escaping from Scotland--something few miners achieved--and he had made it all the way to London. Now he was a prizefighter. What would he do next?

  Sir George had been clever to let him go, she thought. As Jay said, God intended some men to be masters of others, but McAsh would never accept that, and back in the village he would have made trouble for years. There was a magnetism about McAsh that made people follow his lead: the proud way he carried his powerful body, the confident tilt of his head, the intense look in his startling green eyes. She herself felt the attraction: it had drawn her here.

  One of the painted women sat beside her and smiled intimately. Despite her rouge she looked old and tired. How flattering to her disguise it would be, Lizzie thought, if a whore propositioned her. But the woman was not so easily fooled. "I know what you are," she said.

  Women had sharper eyes than men, Lizzie reflected. "Don't tell anyone," she said.

  "You can play the man with me for a shilling," the woman said.

  Lizzie did not know what she meant.

  "I've done it before with your type," she went on. "Rich girls who like to play the man. I've got a fat candle at home that fits just right, do you know what I mean?"

  Lizzie realized what she was getting at. "No, thank you," she said with a smile. "That's not what I'm here for." She reached into her pocket for a coin. "But here's a shilling for keeping my secret."

  "God bless Your Ladyship," the prostitute said, and she went away.

  You could learn a lot in disguise, Lizzie reflected. She would never have guessed that a prostitute would keep a special candle for women who liked to play the man. It was the kind of thing a lady might never find out unless she escaped from respectable society and went exploring the world outside her curtained windows.

  A great cheer went up in the courtyard, and Lizzie guessed the cudgel fight had produced a victor--the last woman left standing, presumably. She went outside, carrying her beer like a man, her arm straight down at her side and her thumb hooked over the lip of the tankard.

  The women gladiators were staggering away or being carried off, and the main event was about to begin. Lizzie saw McAsh right away. There was no doubt it was he: she could see the striking green eyes. He was no longer black with coal dust, and she saw to her surprise that his hair was quite fair. He stood close to the ring talking to another man. He glanced toward Lizzie several times, but he did not penetrate her disguise. He looked grimly determined.

  His opponent, Rees Preece, deserved his nickname "the Welsh Mountain." He was the biggest man Lizzie had ever seen, at least a foot taller than Mack, heavy and red faced, with a crooked nose that had been broken more than once. There was a vicious look about the face, and Lizzie marveled at the courage, or foolhardiness, of anyone who would willingly go into a prizefighting ring with such an evil-looking animal. She felt frightened for McAsh. He could be maimed or even killed, she realized with a chill of dread. She did not want to see that. She was tempted to leave, but she could not drag herself away.

  The fight was about to begin when Mack's friend got into an irate discussion with Preece's seconds. Voices were raised and Lizzie gathered it had to do with Preece's boots. Mack's second was insisting, in an Irish accent, that they fight barefoot. The crowd began a slow hand clap to express their impatience. Lizzie hoped the fight would be called off. But she was disappointed. After much vehement discussion, Preece took off his boots.

  Then, suddenly, the fight was on. Lizzie saw no signal. The two men were at one another like cats, punching and kicking and butting in a frenzy, moving so fast she could hardly see who was doing what. The crowd roared and Lizzie realized she was screaming. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  The initial flurry lasted only a few seconds: it was too energetic to be kept up. The men separated and began to circle one another, fists raised in front of their faces, protecting their bodies with their arms. Mack's lip was swelling and Preece's nose was bleeding. Lizzie bit her finger fearfully.

  Preece rushed Mack again, but this time Mack jumped back, dodging, then suddenly stepped in and hit Preece once, very hard, on the side of the head. Lizzie winced to hear the thud of the blow: it sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a rock. The spectators cheered wildly. Preece seemed to hesitate, as if startled by the blow, and Lizzie guessed he was surprised by Mack's strength. She began to feel hopeful: perhaps Mack could defeat this huge man after all.

  Mack danced back out of reach. Preece shook himself like a dog, then lowered his head and charged, punching wildly. Mack ducked and sidestepped and kicked Preece's legs with a hard bare foot, but somehow Preece managed to crowd him and land several mighty punches. Then Mack hit him hard on the side of the head again, and once more Preece was stopped in his tracks.

  The same dance was repeated, and Lizzie heard the Irishman yell: "In for the kill, Mack, don't give him time to get over it!" She realized that after hitting a stopping punch Mack always backed off and let the other man recover. Preece, by contrast, always followed one punch with another and another until Mack fought him off.

  After ten awful minutes someone rang a bell and the fighters took a rest Lizzie felt as grateful as if she had been in the ring herself. The two boxers were given beer as they sat on crude stools on opposite sides of the ring. One of the seconds took an ordinary household needle and thread and began to stitch a rip in Preece's ear. Lizzie winced and looked away.

  She tried to forget the damage being done to Mack's splendid body and think of the fight as a mere contest. Mack was more nimble and had the more powerful punch, but he did not possess the mindless savagery, the killer instinct that made one man want to destroy another. He needed to get angry.

  When they began again both were moving more slowly, but the combat followed the same pattern: Preece chased the dancing Mack, crowded him, got in close, landed two or three solid blows, then was stopped by Mack's tremendous right-hand punch.

  Soon Preece had one eye closed and was limping from Mack's repeated kicks, but Mack was bleeding from his mouth and from a cut over one eye. As the fight slowed down it became more brutal. Lacking the energy to dodge nimbly, the men seemed to accept the blows in mute suffering. How long could they stand there pounding one another into dead meat? Lizzie wondered why she cared so much about McAsh's body, and told herself that she would have felt the same about anyone.

  There was another break. The Irishman knelt beside Mack's stool and spoke urgently to him, emphasizing his words with vigorous gestures of his fist. Lizzie guessed he was telling Mack to go in for the kill. Even she could see that in a crude trial of strength and stamina Preece would win, simply because he was bigger and more hardened to punishment. Could Mack not see that for himself?

  It began again. As she watched them hammering at one another, Lizzie remembered Malachi McAsh as a six-year-old boy, playing on the lawn at High Glen House. She had been his opponent then, she remembered: she had pulled his hair and made him cry. The memory brought tears to her eyes. How sad that the little boy had come to this.

  There was a flurry of activity in the ring. Mack hit Preece once, twice, and a third time,
then kicked his thigh, making him stagger. Lizzie was seized by the hope that Preece would collapse and the fight would end. But then Mack backed off, waiting for his opponent to fall. The shouted advice of his seconds and the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd urged him to finish Preece off, but he took no notice.

  To Lizzie's dismay Preece recovered yet again, rather suddenly, and hit Mack with a low punch in the pit of the belly. Mack involuntarily bent forward and gasped--and then, unexpectedly, Preece butted him, putting all the force of his broad back into it. Their heads met with a sickening crack. Everyone in the crowd drew breath.

  Mack staggered, falling, and Preece kicked him in the side of the head. Mack's legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Preece kicked him in the head again as he lay prone. Mack did not move. Lizzie heard herself screaming: "Leave him alone!" Preece kicked Mack again and again, until the seconds from both sides jumped into the ring and pulled him away.

  Preece looked dazed, as if he could not understand why the people who had been egging him on and screaming for blood now wanted him to stop; then he regained his senses and raised his hands in a gesture of victory, looking like a dog that has pleased its master.

  Lizzie was afraid Mack might be dead. She pushed through the crowd and stepped into the ring. Mack's second knelt beside his prone body. Lizzie bent over Mack, her heart in her mouth. His eyes were closed, but she saw that he was breathing. "Thank God he's alive," she said.

  The Irishman glanced briefly at her but did not speak. Lizzie prayed Mack was not permanently damaged In the last half hour he had taken more heavy blows to the head than most people suffered in a lifetime. She was terrified that when he returned to consciousness he would be a drooling idiot.

  He opened his eyes.

  "How do you feel?" Lizzie said urgently.

  He closed his eyes again without responding.

  The Irishman stared at her and said: "Who are you, the boy soprano?" She realized she had forgotten to put on a man's voice.

  "A friend," she replied. "Let's carry him inside--he shouldn't lie on the muddy ground."

  After a moment's hesitation the man said: "All right." He grasped Mack under the arms. Two spectators took his legs and they lifted him.

  Lizzie led the way into the tavern. In her most arrogant male voice she shouted: "Landlord--show me your best room, and quick about it!"

  A woman came from behind the bar. "Who's paying?" she said guardedly.

  Lizzie gave her a sovereign.

  "This way," said the woman.

  She led them up the stairs to a bedroom overlooking the courtyard. The room was clean and the four-poster bed was neatly made with a plain coarse blanket. The men laid Mack on the bed. Lizzie said to the woman: "Light the fire then bring us some French brandy. Do you know of a physician in the neighborhood who could dress this man's wounds?"

  "I'll send for Dr. Samuels."

  Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed. Mack's face was a mess, swollen and bloody. She undid his shirt and saw that his chest was covered with bruises and abrasions.

  The helpers left. The Irishman said: "I'm Dermot Riley--Mack lodges in my house."

  "My name is Elizabeth Hallim," she replied. "I've known him since we were children." She decided not to explain why she was dressed as a man: Riley could think what he liked.

  "I don't think he's hurt bad," Riley said.

  "We should bathe his wounds. Ask for some hot water in a bowl, will you?"

  "All right." He went out, leaving her alone with the unconscious Mack.

  Lizzie stared at Mack's still form. He was hardly breathing. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his chest. The skin was warm and the flesh beneath it was hard. She pressed down and felt the thump of his heartbeat, regular and strong.

  She liked touching him. She put her other hand on her own bosom, feeling the difference between her soft breasts and his hard muscles. She touched his nipple, small and soft, and then her own, bigger and protruding.

  He opened his eyes.

  She snatched her hand away, feeling guilty. What in heaven's name am I doing? she thought.

  He looked at her blankly. "Where am I? Who are you?"

  "You were in a prizefight," she said. "You lost."

  He stared at her for several seconds, then at last he grinned. "Lizzie Hallim, dressed as a man again," he said in a normal voice.

  "Thank God you're all right!"

  He gave her a peculiar look. "It's very ... kind of you to care."

  She felt embarrassed. "I can't think why I do," she said in a brittle tone. "You're only a coal miner who doesn't know his place." Then to her horror she felt tears running down her face. "It's very hard to watch a friend being beaten to a pulp," she said with a catch in her voice that she could not control.

  He watched her cry. "Lizzie Hallim," he said wonderingly, "will I ever understand you?"

  15

  BRANDY EASED THE PAIN OF MACK'S WOUNDS THAT evening, but on the following morning he woke up in agony. He hurt in every part of his body that he could identify, from his sore toes--injured by kicking Rees Preece so hard--to the top of his skull, where he had a headache that felt as if it would never go away. The face in the shard of mirror he used for shaving was all cuts and bruises, and too tender to be touched, let alone shaved.

  All the same, his spirits were high. Lizzie Hallim never failed to stimulate him. Her irrepressible boldness made all things seem possible. Whatever would she do next? When he had recognized her, sitting on the edge of the bed, he had suffered a barely controllable urge to take her in his arms. He had resisted the temptation by reminding himself that such a move would be the end of their peculiar friendship. It was one thing for her to break the rules, she was a lady. She might play rough-and-tumble with a puppy dog, but if once it bit her she would put it out in the yard.

  She had told him she was going to marry Jay Jamisson, and he had bitten his tongue instead of telling her she was a damn fool. It was none of his business and he did not want to offend her.

  Dermot's wife, Bridget, made a breakfast of salt porridge and Mack ate it with the children. Bridget was a woman of about thirty who had once been beautiful but now just looked tired. When the food was all gone Mack and Dermot went out to look for work. "Bring home some money," Bridget called as they left.

  It was not a lucky day. They toured the food markets of London, offering themselves as porters for the baskets of wet fish, barrels of wine, and bloody sides of beef the hungry city needed every day; but there were too many men and not enough work. At midday they gave up and walked to the West End to try the coffeehouses. By the end of the afternoon they were as weary as if they had worked all day, but they had nothing to show for it.

  As they turned into the Strand a small figure shot out of an alley, like a bolting rabbit, and crashed into Dermot. It was a girl of about thirteen, ragged and thin and scared. Dermot made a noise like a punctured bladder. The child squealed in fright, stumbled, and regained her balance.

  After her came a brawny young man in expensive but disheveled clothes. He came within an inch of grabbing her as she bounced off Dermot, but she ducked and dodged and ran on. Then she slipped and fell, and he was on her.

  She screamed in terror. The man was mad with rage. He picked up the slight body and punched the side of her head, knocking her down again, then he kicked her puny chest with his booted foot.

  Mack had become hardened to the violence on the streets of London. Men, women and children fought constantly, punching and scratching one another, their battles usually fueled by the cheap gin that was sold at every corner shop. But he had never seen a strong man beat a small child so mercilessly. It looked as if he might kill her. Mack was still in pain from his encounter with the Welsh Mountain, and the last thing he wanted was another fight, but he could not stand still and watch this. As the man was about to kick her again Mack grabbed him roughly and jerked him back.

  He turned around. He was several inches taller than Mack. He put his hand in the center of
Mack's chest and shoved him powerfully away. Mack staggered backward. The man turned again to the child. She was scrambling to her feet. He hit her a mighty slap to her face that sent her flying.

  Mack saw red. He grabbed the man by the collar and the seat of the breeches and lifted him bodily off the ground. The man roared with surprise and anger, and began to writhe violently, but Mack held him and lifted him up over his head.

  Dermot stared in surprise at the ease with which Mack held him up. "You're a strong boy, Mack, by gob," he said.

  "Get your filthy hands off me!" the man shouted.

  Mack set him on the ground but kept hold of one wrist. "Just leave the child alone."

  Dermot helped the girl stand up and held her gently but firmly.

  "She's a damned thief!" said the man aggressively; then he noticed Mack's ravaged face and decided not to make a fight of it.

  "Is that all?" Mack said. "By the way you were kicking her I thought she'd murdered the king."

  "What business of yours is it what she's done?" The man was calming down and catching his breath.

  Mack let him go. "Whatever it was, I think you've punished her enough."

  The man looked at him. "You're obviously just off the boat," he said. "You're a strong lad but, even so, you won't last long in London if you put your trust in the likes of her." With that he walked off.

  The girl said: "Thanks, Jock--you saved my life."

  People knew Mack was Scottish as soon as he spoke. He had not realized that he had an accent until he came to London. In Heugh everyone spoke the same: even the Jamissons had a softened version of the Scots dialect. Here it was like a badge.

  Mack looked at the girl. She had dark hair roughly cropped and a pretty face already swelling with bruises from the beating. Her body was that of a child but there was a knowing, adult look in her eyes. She gazed warily at him, evidently wondering what he wanted from her. He said: "Are you all right?"

  "I hurt," she said, holding her side. "I wish you'd killed that Christforsaken John."