Barker 05 - Black Hand (12 page)

T
HE SUN WAS STARTING TO SET WHEN WE ARRIVED
at South East India Dock. We stood on the dock, surrounded on two sides by warehouses and on the other two by the bristling masts of anchored ships. Narrow alleyways separated one warehouse from another, and cargo was stacked in crates or in odd shapes covered with canvas, dotting the terrain like small mountains. A mass of men, mostly young, milled about at the south end, getting to know each other by sight. I estimated there were close to a hundred of us.

“Are they ready?” Barker asked Tillett.

“Ready enough. They’re untested, of course, but they’re spoiling for a fight.”

“Have you seen any pistols?”

“No, but I’m not about to start searching them, especially not Hooligan’s men.”

“Point them out to me,” Barker said in a low voice, appraising the crowd.

“That big one there,” Tillett said, pointing out a tall,
gangly man with his head shorn close like a convict. “And him,” he continued, indicating a young man with red hair and evil-looking features, who out of sheer fierceness had torn off the sleeves of his coat and shirt. “Those two,” he continued, pointing to a pair of sharp-featured persons, apparently siblings, “and him,” he finished, indicating a large African in a checked suit and cloth cap who stood apart with the hauteur of a panther.

“Is that all? Just the five?”

“No, there are more, but the rest are dispersed among mine. There are thirty or so.”

“How many in all?”

“A hundred fifteen, give or take half a dozen.”

Barker nodded. “Not bad. How are they getting along?”

“Well enough, except for your Frenchmen.”

“The Dummolard boys? What’s the problem?”

“They’ve chosen a crate over there as their base of operations and won’t take orders from me or anyone.”

“You’ve done good work. Let me handle our apache friends.”

Barker moved among the crowd, encouraging them as he went. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before, his military side. I knew he’d seen action in China with Gordon during the Taiping Rebellion.

“Messieurs!” he said to the sour-faced quintet of Frenchmen who sat on a large packing crate, sharpening their knives. “I am glad to see you all here.”

“This had better not be a trick, Barker,” Robert Dummolard spoke for his brothers. “We expect to see Sicilian blood spilt tonight.”

“You will get your chance of that, I’m sure. I want you
to know, however, that I will not simply drop a handkerchief and have you all charge at once. This is a game of strategy.”

“Strategy,” the Frenchman repeated, spitting upon the dock.

“I am sending Hooligan’s Irish lads in first. The five of you will lead the second brigade.”

“My brothers demand to go first,” the Frenchman insisted.

“You must trust me, Robert. I have Etienne’s best interests at heart. There will still be plenty of Sicilians for you to fight. But I hope you have no plans to kill anyone. I cannot shield you from a charge of murder. Remember, they cannot regret what they have done to your brother if they are dead.”

Robert turned to his brothers and spoke in French too rapidly for me to follow, telling them no doubt what Barker had said. Immediately there was an uproar among them—angry faces and fingers being pointed. Robert silenced them all with an oath, then spoke in a low voice for a minute or two.

“Very well, monsieur,” he said. “We agree to your terms. But we lead the second attack.”

“We’re glad to have you,” the Guv told him.

“There they are!” A voice sounded behind us; and on the other side of the dock, the Sicilians appeared. Ben Tillett jumped up on a crate nearby, and I saw him anxiously counting heads from this higher vantage point. Barker surveyed our opponents with one hand on his hip and an elbow resting on the Dummolards’ crate. We all leaned forward to watch our opponents.

“No more than ninety,” Tillett cried. “I’d bet my life on it.”

A cheer rose up, a waving of belaying pins in the air.

“I doubt it’ll be that easy,” Patrick Hooligan said behind us. “These Sicilians are crafty devils. Shall I reconnoiter the area to make certain there’s not a second band of them lurking about?”

“No,” my employer replied calmly. “We’ll take them as they come. If they are too strong, or too many, don’t hesitate to pull back.”

“Don’t you worry, Push. But, mind you, when this is over, I expect your help in return. I’ll be making a bid for the Isle of Dogs.”

“You think you can wrest it from Mr. K’ing’s grasp?”

“Why not?” he asked. “The Sicilians were going to do it. I’ll crowd the Chinaman into Limehouse, so all he can do is smoke on his opium pipey and cry over what he once had.”

Barker nodded and deferred answering for the moment, while I wondered if he was going to give the docks over to Hooligan and his grand ambitions. I thought my employer and K’ing had worked out an understanding between them. The Guv turned and pulled out his watch.

“Mr. Tillett,” he rumbled.

“Yes, sir?”

“Yours to command. Come, lad.”

“All right, boys,” the dock foreman shouted. “I want you in lines of ten. Irish first, Frenchmen next, then you dock-workers. Try not to crowd your neighbors!”

“Where are we going, sir?” I asked, as we skirted the armies and walked beside the warehouses.

“To spy out the leader of the opposing force.”

“Is he here, do you think? Marco Faldo?”

“He’s here. He’s bound to be,” the Guv muttered. “Step up, lad.”

I hoisted myself onto a crate that would offer a commanding view of the proceedings. The sun had almost gone down, bathing us all in a bloodred glow. Our opponents were not as physically large as some of our lads, but they were tough and wiry; and I saw more than one dagger in their hands.

“My word, it’s the man in the cape,” I cried, pointing across the dock. He stood, shouting orders; and as he looked across at our forces, I recognized him as the man I’d identified at Scotland Yard. “It’s the man who shot Gigliotti. The Bertillon card must have been false.”

“Or is that the man?” Barker said, pointing a finger of his own. In the rear of the army stood another caped figure, issuing final instructions to the men there.

“Twins!” I cried.

“The Bertillon card was not wrong. Scotland Yard arrested the wrong brother. I suspected there were two of them all along. The measurements were wrong because the twins were born mirror imaged. It’s time,” he stated, looking at his watch. “Six thirty sharp.”

We watched as Ben Tillett crossed the empty dock between the two armies before he came to a stop in the middle. A moment later the first assassin stepped out to meet him. As he approached, he recognized me and gave me a nod.

“Are you ready?” I heard Tillett ask. We had a good
vantage point, with both men almost directly in front of us.

“Very ready, signor,” the caped man answered. “The question is, are you ready?”

“We are. May we have your word you have no firearms?”

The Sicilian shook his head. “No firearms. We don’t need them to teach a few Englishmen a lesson.”

The two men turned and walked back to their armies. I could feel the tension in the air. Tillett turned and pointed at the Sicilians with his belaying pin. He bawled a sound, unintelligible to my ear, and Hooligan’s gang bellowed it back. They charged past him, weapons raised. Somewhere in the very middle I saw Patrick Hooligan, looking like he was having the time of his life.

The Sicilians did not charge, but waited upon events, which worried me. What did they have up their sleeves? I found out as soon as the Irish crashed into the enemy lines. Or didn’t crash at all, actually. To a man, they came to a stop and abruptly turned around, with crafty smiles on their faces. Hooligan and his boys had gone with the higher bidder. They were deserters. I should have remembered my history. If memory serves, the Irish played this same trick against Edward Longshanks six hundred years ago.

“We’ve been outfoxed, sir,” I yelled. “Now what do we do? We’re outnumbered by dozens!”

“We accept it and move on,” Barker answered. He called to the caped Sicilians, “You may have them, sirs. We have no need of turncoats.”

Tillett bellowed again, and a second later the assassins gave answering cries. Our army trotted forward, led by the
Dummolards, who waved daggers in the air. The two sides crashed together in front of us, with the sound of wood against wood and body against body. There were cries and groans. Weapons fell to the ground and were quickly picked up, and knives slashed at human flesh.

“Come, lad,” Barker said, jumping off the crate into the thick of the battle. The first
mafiusu
he encountered he spun around and dropped upon the pavement.

I knew better than to think I was going to be merely a spectator. I jumped down, avoided a blade aimed in my direction, and brought the brass ball of my malacca cane down upon the shoulder of my assailant. It wasn’t quite enough to stop him, so I tried it again; and when he raised his arm to protect himself, I smote him in the ribs.

Just then a board broke over my left elbow, rendering it momentarily numb. I kicked out at a knee, however, and knocked the fellow down; but there was another to take his place. And another. I was quickly surrounded by fighting men.

As I fought with a Sicilian dockworker armed with a marlinespike, he suddenly tripped beside a large crate, falling heavily to the dock. I was debating whether to give him a kick when he gave a sharp cry and was pulled backward under a side of the crate. Over the fighting, I thought I heard a sound of pounding beneath us. Stepping around the side of the crate, I found a knothole and peered inside. Then I spoke into it.

“Nice factory you’ve got here, Vic. How many have your boys caught so far?”

“Free,” came the response, “but I ’ope to improve if you’ll quit discouraging customers by ’angin’ ’roun’ me box,
fathead. Unless you’d like to step in front and investigate the operation first’and. Otherwise, hop it!”

I had to hand it to Soho Vic. He’s very resourceful. I couldn’t fathom how he knew about the empty crate so quickly after Barker had chosen this dock. Somehow he’d found a way to even the odds for his gang. He didn’t go out into their dangerous world. He dragged people into his. I debated informing Barker, knowing he didn’t want Soho Vic or his boys on the dock. However, the brawl was far from over yet.

Ahead of me, Barker almost seemed to be enjoying himself, disarming Sicilians and bringing them down. I’ve always wondered how a man who spends most of his evenings immersed in prayer so well enjoyed a pitched battle against other human beings. He seemed to achieve some sort of release by it.

I’d brought down four men so far, putting them all out of commission. The Guv had not yet trained me in fighting two men at once, as he could; but as long as I took them on one at a time I was doing all right.

Barker suddenly stuffed two fingers under his mustache and blew a shrill whistle. Abruptly, a barge that was standing alongside the dock spewed sailors—dozens of them—out onto the deck. One man rested a long limb against the rail and surveyed the scene with an air of command. It was Peter Beauchamp, here to lend a hand. Barker must have known that Hooligan was not to be trusted days before, and had planned accordingly. I saw relief on the faces of Barker’s men and renewed vigor against their opponents.

My employer had almost reached the spot where the Sicilian twins were battering our men to the ground with
ebony canes. I was busy knocking the legs out from under a new acquaintance, when a hand seized my collar from behind, and I felt cold metal against the back of my neck. I recognized the barrel of a pistol when I felt one.

“No guns!” I protested hotly, looking over my shoulder. Then I gasped. It took a moment for my brain to verify what my eyes were seeing.

I
NSPECTOR PETTIGRILLI?” I ASKED. “YOU’RE ALIVE?”

“No, lad,” Barker called behind me. “This is Marco Faldo.”

The Sicilian nodded, his pistol barrel still pressed against my neck. “Very good, Mr. Barker. I see you did not fall for my little ruse.”

“I did,” the Guv admitted, “for a time, at least.”

By now the twin killers had fought off other opponents and were standing on either side of my employer, ready to do battle. He looked at them appraisingly.

“Lad, your stick,” Barker called.

I tossed him my brass-headed malacca, and he caught it in his left hand, still holding his cane in his right. Barker, I realized, was about to square off against two skilled assassins at once. I wasn’t sure if it was possible to defeat them both, even for one as trained as my employer. I dared take one step in his direction.

“Mr. Llewelyn,” Faldo warned, “I would not hesitate to blow your brains out through a small hole in the front of your skull.”

I stopped. There was nothing I could do—not yet, anyway.

The brothers began to circle Barker, looking for a weak spot to attack. It has been my experience that when it comes to fighting, he doesn’t have one, but he’s not above giving a false impression in order to bring on an attack. Both brothers closed in at once, raising their sticks to strike, and the fight began.