A Place Called Freedom (23 page)

He looked away, caught Cora’s eye and smiled.

He saw a faint flash of recognition in her expression, as if she knew who he was; then she smiled back and came over.

Jay felt nervous and told himself that he only had to be charming. He had charmed a hundred women. He kissed her hand. She wore a heady perfume with sandalwood in it. “I thought I knew every beautiful woman in London, but I was wrong,” he said gallantly. “I’m Captain Jonathan and this is Captain Chip.” Jay had decided not to use his real name in case Mack had mentioned him to Cora. If she found out who he was she would be sure to smell a rat.

“I’m Cora,” she said, giving them a once-over look. “What a handsome pair. I can’t decide which captain I like best.”

Chip said: “My family is nobler than Jay’s.”

“But mine’s richer,” said Jay, and for some reason that made them both giggle.

“If you’re so rich, buy me a measure of brandy,” she said.

Jay waved at the waiter and offered her a seat.

She squeezed in between him and Chip on the bench. He smelled gin on her breath. He looked down at her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. He could not help comparing her with his wife. Lizzie was short but voluptuous, with wide hips and a deep bosom. Cora was taller and more slender, and her breasts looked to him like two apples lying side by side in a bowl.

Giving him a quizzical look she said: “Do I know you?”

He felt a stab of anxiety. Surely they had never met? “I don’t think so,” he said. If she recognized him the game would be up.

“You look familiar. I know I’ve never spoken to you, but I’ve seen you.”

“Now’s our chance to get to know one another,” he said with a desperate smile. He put his arm over the back of the seat and stroked her neck. She closed her eyes as if she were enjoying it, and Jay began to relax.

She was so convincing that he almost forgot she was pretending. She put a hand on his thigh, close to his crotch. He told himself not to enjoy this too much: he was supposed to be playacting. He wished he had not drunk so much. He might need his wits about him.

Her brandy came and she drank it in a gulp. “Come on, big boy,” she said. “We’d better get some air before you burst out of those breeches.”

Jay realized he had a visible erection, and he blushed.

Cora stood up and headed for the door, and Jay followed.

When they were outside she put her arm around his waist and led him along the colonnaded sidewalk of the Covent Garden piazza. He draped an arm over her shoulder, then worked his hand into the bosom of her dress and played with her nipple. She giggled and turned into an alley.

They embraced and kissed, and he squeezed both her breasts. He forgot all about Lennox and the plot: Cora was warm and willing and he wanted her. Her hands were all over him, undoing his waistcoat, rubbing his chest, and diving into his breeches. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and tried to lift her skirts up at the same time. He felt cold air on his belly.

From behind him there came a childish scream. Cora gave a start and pushed Jay away. She looked over his shoulder then turned as if to run, but Chip Marlborough appeared and grabbed her before she took the first step.

Jay turned around and saw Lennox struggling to keep hold of a screaming, scratching, wriggling child. As they struggled the child dropped several objects. In the starlight Jay recognized his own wallet and pocket watch, silk handkerchief and silver seal. She had been picking his pockets while he was kissing Cora. Even though he was expecting it he had felt nothing. But he had entered very fully into the part he was playing.

The child stopped struggling and Lennox said: “We’re taking you two before a magistrate. Picking pockets is a hanging offense.”

Jay looked around, half expecting Cora’s friends to come rushing to her defense; but no one had seen the scuffle in the alley.

Chip glanced at Jay’s crotch and said: “You can put your weapon away, Captain Jamisson—the battle is over.”

Most wealthy and powerful men were magistrates and Sir George Jamisson was no exception. Although he never held open court, he had the right to try cases at home. He could order offenders to be flogged, branded or imprisoned, and he had the power to commit more serious offenders to the Old Bailey for trial.

He was expecting Jay, so he had not gone to bed, but all the same he was irritable at having been kept up so late. “I expected you around ten o’clock,” he said grumpily when they all trooped into the drawing room of the Grosvenor Square house.

Cora, dragged in by Chip Marlborough with her hands tied, said: “So you were expecting us! This was all planned—you evil pigs.”

Sir George said: “Shut your mouth or I’ll have you flogged around the square before we begin.”

Cora seemed to believe him, for she said no more.

He drew paper toward him and dipped a pen in an inkwell. “Jay Jamisson, Esquire, is the prosecutor. He complains that his pocket was picked by …”

Lennox said: “She’s called Quick Peg, sir.”

“I can’t write that down,” Sir George snapped. “What is your real name, child?”

“Peggy Knapp, sir.”

“And the woman’s name?”

“Cora Higgins,” said Cora.

“Pocket picked, by Peggy Knapp, accomplice Cora Higgins. The crime witnessed by …”

“Sidney Lennox, keeper of the Sun tavern in Wapping.”

“And Captain Marlborough?”

Chip raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’d rather not get involved, if Mr. Lennox’s evidence will suffice.”

“It surely will, Captain,” said Sir George. He was always polite to Chip because he owed Chip’s father money. “Very good of you to assist in the apprehension of these thieves. Now, have the accused anything to say?”

Cora said: “I’m not her accomplice—I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Peg gasped and stared at Cora in disbelief, but Cora carried on. “I went for a walk with a handsome young man, that’s all. I never knew she was picking his pockets.”

Lennox said: “The two are known associates, Sir George—I’ve seen them together many times.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Sir George said. “You are both committed to Newgate Prison on charges of pick-pocketing.”

Peg began to cry. Cora was white with fear. “Why are you all doing this?” she said. She pointed an accusing finger at Jay. “You were waiting for me in Archer’s.” She pointed at Lennox. “You followed us out. And you, Sir George Jamisson, stayed up late, when you should be in bed, to commit us. What’s the point of it all? What have Peg and me ever done to you?”

Sir George ignored her. “Captain Marlborough, oblige me by taking the woman outside and guarding her for a few moments.” They all waited while Chip led Cora out and closed the door. Then Sir George turned to Peg. “Now, child, what is the punishment for picking pockets—do you know?”

She was pale and trembling. “The sheriff’s collar,” she whispered.

“If you mean hanging, you’re right. But did you know that some people are not hanged, but sent to America instead?”

The child nodded.

“They are people who have influential friends to plead for them, and beg the judge to be merciful. Do you have influential friends?” She shook her head.

“Well, now, what if I tell you that I will be your influential friend and intercede for you?”

She looked up at him, and hope gleamed in her little face.

“But you have to do something for me.”

“What?” she said.

“I will save you from hanging if you tell us where Mack McAsh is living.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

“In the attic over the coal yard in Wapping High Street,” she said, and she burst into tears.

22

M
ACK WAS SURPRISED TO WAKE UP ALONE
.

Cora had never before stayed out until daybreak. He had been living with her for only two weeks and he did not know all her habits, but all the same he was worried.

He got up and followed his usual routine. He spent the morning at St. Luke’s Coffee House, sending messages and receiving reports. He asked everyone if they had seen or heard of Cora, but no one had. He sent someone to the Sun tavern to speak to Quick Peg, but she too had been out all night and had not returned.

In the afternoon he walked to Covent Garden and went around the taverns and coffeehouses, questioning the whores and waiters. Several people had seen Cora last night. A waiter at Lord Archer’s had noticed her leaving with a rich young drunk. After that there was no trace.

He went to Dermot’s lodgings in Spitalfields, hoping for news. Dermot was feeding his children a broth made of bones for their supper. He had been asking after Cora all day and had heard nothing.

Mack walked home in the dark, hoping that when he arrived at Cora’s apartment over the coal yard she would be there, lying on the bed in her underwear, waiting for him. But the place was cold and dark and empty.

He lit a candle and sat brooding. Outside on Wapping High Street the taverns were filling up. Although the coal heavers were on strike they still found money for beer. Mack would have liked to join them, but for safety he did not show his face in the taverns at night.

He ate some bread and cheese and read a book Gordonson had loaned him, a novel called
Tristram Shandy
, but he could not concentrate. Late in the evening, when he was beginning to wonder if Cora was dead, there was a commotion in the street outside.

He heard men shouting and the noise of running feet and what sounded like several horses and carts. Fearing that the coal heavers might start some kind of fracas he went to the window.

The sky was clear and there was a half-moon, so Mack could see all along the High Street. Ten or twelve horse-drawn carts were lumbering down the uneven dirt road in the moonlight, evidently headed for the coal yard. A crowd of men followed the carts, jeering and shouting, and more spilled out of the taverns and joined them at every corner.

The scene had all the makings of a riot.

Mack cursed, it was the last thing he wanted.

He turned from the window and rushed down the stairs. If he could talk to the men with the carts and persuade them not to unload, he might avert violence.

When he reached the street the first cart was turning into the coal yard. As he ran forward the men jumped off the carts and, without warning, began to throw lumps of coal at the crowd. Some of the heavers were hit; others picked up the lumps of coal and threw them back. Mack heard a woman scream and saw children being herded indoors.

“Stop!” he yelled. He ran between the coal heavers and the carts with his hands held up. “Stop!” The men recognized him and for a moment there was quiet. He was grateful to see Charlie Smith’s face in the crowd. “Try to keep order here, Charlie, for God’s sake,” he said. “I’ll talk to these people.”

“Everybody stay calm,” Charlie called out. “Leave it to Mack.”

Mack turned his back on the heavers. On either side of the narrow street, people were standing on house doorsteps, curious to see what was happening but ready to duck quickly inside. There were at least five men on each coal cart. In the unnatural silence Mack approached the lead cart. “Who’s in charge here?” he said.

A figure stepped forward in the moonlight. “I am.”

Mack recognized Sidney Lennox.

He was shocked and puzzled. What was going on here? Why was Lennox trying to deliver coal to a yard? He had a cold premonition of disaster.

He spotted the owner of the yard, Jack Cooper, known as Black Jack because he was always covered in black dust like a miner. “Jack, close up the gates of your yard, for God’s sake,” he pleaded. “There’ll be murder done if you let this go on.”

Cooper looked sulky. “I’ve got to make a living.”

“You will, as soon as the strike is over. You don’t want to see bloodshed on Wapping High Street, do you?”

“I’ve set my hand to the plow and I’ll not look back now.”

Mack gave him a hard look. “Who asked you to do this, Jack? Is there someone else involved?”

“I’m my own man—no one tells me what to do.”

Mack began to see what was happening, and it made him angry. He turned to Lennox. “You’ve paid him off. But why?”

They were interrupted by the sound of a handbell being rung loudly. Mack turned to see three people standing at the upstairs window of the Frying Pan tavern. One was ringing the bell, another holding a lantern. The third man, in the middle, wore the wig and sword that marked him as someone of importance.

When the bell stopped ringing, the third man announced himself. “I am Roland MacPherson, a justice of the peace in Wapping, and I hereby declare a riot.” He went on to read the key section of the Riot Act.

Once a riot had been declared, everyone had to disperse within an hour. Defiance was punishable by death.

The magistrate had got there quickly, Mack thought. Clearly he had been expecting this and waiting in the tavern for his cue. This whole episode had been carefully planned.

But to what end? It seemed to him they wanted to provoke a riot that would discredit the coal heavers and give them a pretext to hang the ringleaders. And that meant him.

His first reaction was aggressive. He wanted to yell, “If they’re asking for a riot, by God we’ll give them one they’ll never forget—we’ll burn London before we’re done!” He wanted to get his hands around Lennox’s throat. But he forced himself to be calm and think clearly. How could he frustrate Lennox’s plan?

His only hope was to give in and let the coal be delivered.

He turned to the coal heavers, gathered in an angry crowd around the open gates of the yard. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is a plot to provoke us into a riot. If we all go home peacefully we will outwit our enemies. If we stay and fight, we’re lost.”

There was a rumble of discontent.

Dear God, Mack thought, these men are stupid. “Don’t you understand?” he said. “They want an excuse to hang some of us. Why give them what they want? Let’s go home tonight and fight on tomorrow!”

“He’s right,” Charlie piped up. “Look who’s here—Sidney Lennox. He’s up to no good, we can be sure of that.”

Some of the coal heavers were nodding agreement now, and Mack began to think he might persuade them. Then he heard Lennox’s voice yell: “Get him!”

Several men came at Mack at once. He turned to run, but one tackled him and he crashed to the muddy ground. As he struggled he heard the coal heavers roar, and he knew that what he had dreaded was about to begin: a pitched battle.

He was kicked and punched but he hardly felt the blows as he struggled to get up. Then the men attacking him were thrown aside by coal heavers and he regained his feet.

He looked around swiftly. Lennox had vanished. The rival gangs filled the narrow street. He saw fierce hand-to-hand fighting on all sides. The horses bucked and strained in their traces, neighing in terror. His instincts made him want to join in the fray and start knocking people down, but he held himself back. What was the quickest way to end this? He tried to think fast. The coal heavers would not retreat: it was against their nature. The best bet might be to get them into a defensive position and hope for a standoff.

He grabbed Charlie. “We’ll try to get inside the coal yard and close the gates on them,” he said. “Tell the men!”

Charlie ran from man to man, spreading the order, shouting at the top of his voice to be heard over the noise of the battle: “Inside the yard and close the gates! Keep them out of the yard!” Then, to his horror, Mack heard the bang of a musket.

“What the hell is going on?” he said, although no one was listening. Since when did coal drivers carry firearms? Who were these people?

He saw a blunderbuss, a musket with a shortened barrel, pointed at him. Before he could move, Charlie snatched the gun, turned it on the man who held it, and shot him at point-blank range. The man fell dead.

Mack cursed. Charlie could hang for that.

Someone rushed him. Mack sidestepped and swung a fist. His blow landed on the point of the chin and the man fell down.

Mack backed away and tried to think. The whole thing was taking place right outside Mack’s window. That must have been intentional. They had found out his address somehow. Who had betrayed him?

The first shots were followed by a ragged tattoo of gunfire. Flashes lit up the night and the smell of gunpowder mingled with the coal dust in the air. Mack cried out in protest as several coal heavers fell dead or wounded: their wives and widows would blame him, and they would be right. He had started something he could not control.

Most of the coal heavers got into the yard where there was a supply of coal to throw. They fought frenziedly to keep the coal drivers out. The yard walls gave them cover from the musket fire that rattled intermittently.

The hand-to-hand fighting was fiercest at the yard entrance, and Mack saw that if he could get the high wooden gates closed the entire battle might peter out. He fought his way through the melee, got behind one of the heavy timber gates, and started to push. Some of the coal heavers saw what he was attempting and joined in. The big gate swept several scuffling men out of the way, and Mack thought they would get it shut in a moment; then it was blocked by a cart.

Gasping for breath, Mack shouted: “Move the cart, move the cart!”

His plan was already having some effect, he saw with an access of hope. The angled gate made a partial barrier between the two sides. Furthermore, the first excitement of the battle had passed, and the men’s zest for fighting had been tempered by injuries and bruises and the sight of some of their comrades lying dead or wounded. The instinct of self-preservation was reasserting itself, and they were looking for ways to disengage with dignity.

Mack began to think he might end the fighting soon. If the confrontation could be stalled before someone called out the troops, the whole thing might be perceived as a minor skirmish and the strike could continue to be seen as a mainly peaceful protest.

A dozen coal heavers began to drag the cart out of the yard while others pushed the gates. Someone cut the horse’s traces, and the frightened beast ran around in a panic, neighing and kicking. “Keep pushing, don’t stop!” Mack yelled as huge lumps of coal rained down on them. The cart inched out and the gates closed the gap with maddening slowness.

Then Mack heard a noise that wiped out all his hopes at a stroke: the sound of marching feet.

The guards marched down Wapping High Street, their white-and-red uniforms gleaming in the moonlight. Jay rode at the head of the column, keeping his horse close-reined at a brisk walk. He was about to get what he had said he wanted: action.

He kept his face expressionless but his heart was pounding. He could hear the roar of the battle Lennox had started: men shouting, horses neighing, muskets banging. Jay had never yet used a sword or gun in anger: tonight would be his first engagement. He told himself that a rabble of coal heavers would be terrified of a disciplined and trained troop of guards, but he found it hard to be confident.

Colonel Cranbrough had given him this assignment and sent him out without a superior officer. Normally Cranbrough would have commanded the detachment himself, but he knew this was a special situation, with heavy political interference, and he wanted to keep out of it. Jay had been pleased at first, but now he wished he had an experienced superior to help him.

Lennox’s plan had sounded foolproof in theory, but as he rode to battle Jay found it full of holes. What if McAsh were somewhere else tonight? What if he escaped before Jay could arrest him?

As they approached the coal yard the pace of the march seemed to slow, until Jay felt they were creeping forward by inches. Seeing the soldiers, many of the rioters fled and others took cover; but some threw coal, and a rain of lumps came down on Jay and his men. Without flinching they marched up to the coal yard gates and, as prearranged, took up their firing positions.

There would be only one volley. They were so close to the enemy that they would not have time to reload.

Jay raised his sword. The coal heavers were trapped in the yard. They had been trying to close the yard gates but now they gave up and the gates swung fully open. Some scrambled over the walls, others tried pathetically to find cover among the heaps of coal or behind the wheels of a cart. It was like shooting chickens in a coop.

Suddenly McAsh appeared on top of the wall, a broad-shouldered figure, his face lit by the moon. “Stop!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot!”

Go to hell, Jay thought.

He swept his sword down and shouted: “Fire!”

The muskets cracked like thunder. A pall of smoke appeared and hid the soldiers for a moment. Ten or twelve coal heavers fell, some shouting in pain, others deathly silent. McAsh jumped down from the wall and knelt by the motionless, blood-soaked body of a Negro. He looked up and met Jay’s eye, and the rage in his face chilled Jay’s blood.

Jay shouted: “Charge!”

The coal heavers engaged the guards aggressively, surprising Jay. He had expected them to flee, but they dodged swords and muskets to grapple hand-to-hand, fighting with sticks and lumps of coal and fists and feet. Jay was dismayed to see several uniforms fall.

He looked around for McAsh and could not see him.

Jay cursed. The whole purpose of this was to arrest McAsh. That was what Sir Philip had asked for, and Jay had promised to deliver. Surely he had not slipped away?

Then, suddenly, McAsh was in front of him.

Instead of running away the man was coming after Jay.

McAsh grabbed Jay’s bridle. Jay lifted his sword, and McAsh ducked around to Jay’s left side. Jay struck awkwardly and missed. McAsh jumped up, grabbed Jay’s sleeve and pulled. Jay tried to jerk his arm back but McAsh would not let go. With dreadful inevitability Jay slid sideways in his saddle. McAsh gave a mighty heave and pulled him off his horse.