A Place Called Freedom (1995) Page 15

  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 an
d 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.”

  Mack was disgusted by Delaney’s cynicism, but he felt the man was telling the truth. He could not think of anything else to say or do. Feeling defeated, he went to the door, and Dermot and Charlie followed.

  “Take my advice, McAsh,” Delaney said. “Be like me. Get yourself a little tavern and sell liquor to coal heavers. Stop trying to help them and start helping yourself. You could do well. You’ve got it in you, I can tell.”

  “Be like you?” Mack said. “You’ve made yourself rich by cheating your fellow men. By Christ, I wouldn’t be like you for a kingdom.”

  As he went out he was gratified to see Delaney’s face darken in anger at last.

  But his satisfaction lasted no longer than it took to close the door. He had won an argument and lost everything else. If only he had swallowed his pride and accepted the undertakers’ system, he would at least have work to do tomorrow morning. Now he had nothing—and he had put fifteen other men, and their families, in the same hopeless position. The prospect of bringing Esther to London was farther away than ever. He had handled everything wrong. He was a damn fool.

  The three men sat in one of the bars and ordered beer and bread for their breakfast. Mack reflected that he had been arrogant to look down on the coal heavers for accepting their lot dumbly. In his mind he had called them oxen, but he was the ox.

  He thought of Caspar Gordonson, the radical lawyer who had started all this by telling Mack his legal rights. If I could get hold of Gordonson, Mack thought, I’d let him know what legal rights are worth.

  The law was useful only to those who had the power to enforce it, it seemed. Coal miners and coal heavers had no advocate at court. They were fools to talk of their rights. The smart people ignored right and wrong and took care of themselves, like Cora and Peg and Buck Delaney.

  He picked up his tankard then froze with it halfway to his mouth. Caspar Gordonson lived in London, of course. Mack could get hold of him. He could let him know what legal rights were worth—but perhaps he could do better than that. Perhaps Gordonson would be the coal heavers’ advocate. He was a lawyer, and he wrote constantly about English liberty: he ought to help.

  It was worth a try.

  The fatal letter Mack received from Caspar Gordonson had come from an address in Fleet Street. The Fleet was a filthy stream running into the Thames at the foot of the hill upon which St. Paul’s Cathedral stood. Gordonson lived in a three-story brick row house next to a large tavern.

  “He must be a bachelor,” said Dermot

  “How do you know?” Charlie Smith asked.

  “Dirty windows, doorstep not polished—there’s no lady in this house.”

  A manservant let them in, showing no surprise when they asked for Mr. Gordonson. As they entered, two well-dressed men were leaving, continuing as they went a heated discussion that involved William Pitt, the Lord Privy Seal, and Viscount Weymouth, a secretary of State. They did not pause in their argument but one nodded to Mack with absentminded politeness, which surprised him greatìy, since gentlemen normally ignored low-class people.

  Mack had imagined a lawyer’s house to be a place of dusty documents and whispered secrets, in which the loudest noise was the slow scratching of pens. Gordonson’s home was more like a printer’s shop. Pamphlets and journals in string-tied bundles were stacked in the hall, the air smelled of cut paper and printing ink, and the sound of machinery from below stairs suggested that a press was being operated in the basement.

  The servant stepped into a room off the hall. Mack wondered if he was wasting his time. People who wrote clever articles in journals probably did not dirty their hands by getting involved with workingmen. Gordonson’s interest in liberty might be strictly theoretical. But Mack had to try everything. He had led his coal heaving gang into rebellion, and now they were all without work: he had to do something.

  A loud and shrill voice came from within. “McAsh? Never heard of him! Who is he? You don’t know? Then ask! Never mind—”

  A moment later a balding man with no wig appeared in the doorway and peered at the three coal heavers through spectacles. “I don’t think I know any of you,” he said. “What do you want with me?”

  It was a discouraging introduction, but Mack was not easily disheartened, and he said spiritedly: “You gave me some very bad advice recently but, despite that, I’ve come back for more.”

  There was a pause, and Mack thought he had given offense; then Gordonson laughed heartily. In a friendly voice he said: “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Malachi McAsh, known as Mack. I was a coal miner at Heugh, near Edinburgh, until you wrote and told me I was a free man.”

  Understanding lit up Gordonson’s expression. “You’re the liberty-loving miner! Shake hands, man.”

  Mack intr
oduced Dermot and Charlie.

  “Come in, all of you. Have a glass of wine?”

  They followed him into an untidy room furnished with a writing table and walls of bookcases. More publications were piled on the floor, and printers’ proofs were scattered across the table. A fat old dog lay on a stained rug in front of the fire. There was a ripe smell that must have come from the rug or the dog, or both. Mack lifted an open law book from a chair and sat down. “I won’t take any wine, thank you,” he said. He wanted his wits about him.

  “A cup of coffee, perhaps? Wine sends you to sleep but coffee wakes you up.” Without waiting for a reply he said to the servant: “Coffee for everyone.” He turned back to Mack. “Now, McAsh, why was my advice to you so wrong?”

  Mack told him the story of how he had left Heugh. Dermot and Charlie listened intently: they had never heard this. Gordonson lit a pipe and blew clouds of tobacco smoke, shaking his head in disgust from time to time. The coffee came as Mack was finishing.

  “I know the Jamissons of old—they’re greedy, heartless, brutal people,” Gordonson said with feeling. “What did you do when you got to London?”

  “I became a coal heaver.” Mack related what had happened in the Sun tavern last night.

  Gordonson said: “The liquor payments to coal heavers are a long-standing scandal.”

  Mack nodded. “I’ve been told I’m not the first to protest.”

  “Indeed not. Parliament actually passed a law against the practice ten years ago.”

  Mack was astonished. “Then how does it continue?”

  “The law has never been enforced.”

  “Why not?”

  “The government is afraid of disrupting the supply of coal. London runs on coal—nothing happens here without it: no bread is made, no beer brewed, no glass blown, no iron smelted, no horses shod, no nails manufactured—”

  “I understand,” Mack interrupted impatiently. “I ought not to be surprised that the law does nothing for men such as us.”

  “Now, you’re wrong about that,” Gordonson said in a pedantic tone. “The law makes no decisions. It has no will of its own. It’s like a weapon, or a tool: it works for those who pick it up and use it.”