by Jackson, Gil
The mammoth crane, slowly at first, began to take back its cable. A signalman above him - one foot perched on the rim of the ship’s hold - bent forward, his left arm pointed down to Fariq, his right skywards towards a red-Indian crane operator by the name of Bear, a hundred feet up.
Fariq yelled still holding onto the strap, ‘Keep her going ... slowly.’ Aware of the danger of a load swinging out of control if lifted too quickly from off the vertical. For the inside of a ship is a hard place and can do a lot of damage to a soft head. He’d seen experienced handlers knocked sideward to their death across the width of a hold – head’s smashed open like hard-boiled eggs against unforgiving 2-inch thick rusty-red steel plate.
The signalman waved his wrist energetically to the man in the sky who waiting for his sign throttled the four-litre Diesel crane engine wide open. The timber lifted out of the dark as if matchwood, its half ton weight barely making a difference to the tone of the engine as the cable - greased black tension - came home to its windlass.
Taking the moment, Fariq, pulled some paper from his breast pocket and placed it between his lips. From another he took a soft leather bearskin pouch and opened it; fingering its contents took out enough tobacco for a cigarette. Removing the paper from between his lips he pulled the strands of Virginia along its length and finger rolled it. Subconsciously looking up towards the daylight beyond him ran his tongue along the paper’s gum: sealed it. ‘That’s it,’ he shouted above the noise of the engine, ‘I’m coming out.’
Putting the cigarette to his lips he started his climb up the ladder that was his escape, and half closing his eyes against the light emerged from the hold after a two-hour stint in semi-darkness into the morning light and the remainder of his working day.
The signalman waiting for him cupped a match round Fariq’s cigarette. Smoke blew from his mouth, then he lit his own. ‘We gotta go over D wharf — loada timber to be emptied before tide,’ he said inhaling and blowing out the words in a puff of cigarette smoke.
‘How many they want?’
He spoke hurriedly. ‘All of us. It’s not enough. I told them that. I said it wouldn’t happen. The men can’t keep this pressure up, we’re going to have to pay — by the balls and he knows it. We can’t keep this pace somebodies going get killed!’
‘The hell I will. You pay if you want, I’m not. If you pay the man, and get less for the work than their doing on my gang, let them go, I’ll not stop them.’
‘It’s the threats. They’re worried ’bout their families, you can’t blame ’em.’
‘And what about you? Are you so easily threatened by Giuseppi’s Union?’
‘I’m overseer, getting the job done is my concern. I’m with you at the moment but I won’t be sorry when it goes one way or the other.’
‘Our way?’
‘Like I said. I’ve gotta consider my position.’
Fariq drew on his cigarette and stared at the Signalman. ‘Yeh, sure.’
A shout distracted them. The voice came from the side of the wharf they could not see, but Fariq recognised him.
‘Just getting Fariq’s gang together,’ the Signalman shouted back to the Dock master.
The Dock master came over to them and nodded at Fariq then spoke to the Signalman. ‘You’d better have enough men this time. Ship’s to be unloaded and floated on the tide.’ Fariq nodded at him as he turned to leave.
‘It’ll be done.’ Fariq said to the Signalman.
‘Better. GANG UP. DEEE!’ the Signalman shouted to the men on the wharf side. ‘Move OVER!’
* * *
D dock got cleared on the tide much to the Signalman’s relief, and Fariq had survived another day with Giuseppi’s influence on the Union members. He jumped from the ship to the dockside. It was littered from the debris of the days’ unloading making it awkward to walk across to the warehouses and sheds that led out the yard.
Late afternoon, Fariq picked his way past the first of the warehouses, his thoughts on what he was getting into with Marco Giuseppi and his team of Union gangsters that it seemed he might be getting his way. The Signalman was right in one way over the threats. It was all very well having a few men behind you, but how many would there be if Giuseppi’s threats got serious. Not many. And that was probably an overestimate.
Passing the rope shop the first of what he was getting into appeared in the shape of a pair of black and white leather shoes and a pair of brown brogues. Two men, one he recognised: Tony Di Sotto; the other, he didn’t, an oaf of a man with his head the size of his neck, wearing a pin stripe suit that was clearly having difficulty containing him. They were in his way and had every intention of staying put. He stopped and looked into their faces.
‘Nice evening, Mr. Fariq.’
‘If you say so, Tony, and with your permission I’ll go home, change and join you later.’ He went to step round them but the larger man’s hand gripped him on the shoulder.
‘Allow me to introduce you to ...’ Tony said his name but Fariq only heard the first part. A blinding flash went before his eyes as the man caught him a paralysing blow to the kidneys that might have been ruptured. He was out of it for a second or two before he became aware of a flat ringing sound coming from within his head. He felt sick behind his eyes and became anxious as to this sudden trauma to his body. He tried to focus his thoughts and raise himself but found he was being held down: the grip to his shoulder still there. He was aware of an excruciating pain to one of his kneecaps where it had caught the edge of something sharp. In this position a voice came to him.
‘My name is Sledge Driver, but you can call me The Rivet; we shall be seeing a lot of each other in the future, especially if you continue with these “fancy your chances” ideas.’
Tony spoke next. ‘Sorry we were interrupted by my friend here, Mr. Fariq, Sledge tends to be a bit on the impetuous side, but Mr. Giuseppi, he likes him for all that.’
Fariq listened but did not respond.
Sledge released his shoulder and grasped a handful of Fariq’s hair pulling his head back sharply until he thought his neck would snap. Slowly opening his eyes he tried to assess the situation to see if there was anything he could do. Two out-of-focus faces were staring at him - he was deluding himself if he thought he could.
Tony whispered something into Fariq’s ear. Fariq didn’t respond. ‘Did you hear what I said, Fariq?’ He decided that he would not respond and had his head jerked back for his trouble. Tony put his ear to Fariq’s mouth for a second time. ‘Sorry. I didn’t get that. Can you hear me now?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Come closer, I’ve lost my voice.’
Tony leaned forward; craning his neck to hear what Fariq had to say when he seized the best opportunity he had and took a snapping bite at Tony’s ear. With a whip of his painful neck tore a piece off and spat it out, then spat again to remove the taste of salty blood.
Tony felt as if a red-hot poker had been plunged into the side of his head, not realising at first what had happened until he saw the blood flowing and cottoned on to what had happened lost all further interest; concentrated on his ear or what he thought was left of it.
Sledge released Fariq trying to see what had happened to Tony — who by this time was holding the side of his bloody ear screaming all manner of obscenities. Stemming the flow of blood with a handkerchief he turned back to Fariq who had turned on his side clutching at his knee.
Sledge went off into one of the rope shops, minutes later coming back out with a red-hot rivet in a pair of tongs. ‘Hold him tight around the arm!’ Tony did as he was bid still holding his bleeding ear. Sledge pulled open Fariq’s hand and dropped the rivet into a cone of pitched canvas. The canvas started to smoke. He placed it into Fariq’s open hand and closed it tight. Tied a bandage of jute round his fist trapping the hot rivet. Smiling he said. ‘Mr. Giuseppi feels that you’ve gone far enough. He’s not pleased the way you’re undermining his business. He wants what’s due to him and he wants it at the end of this week,
from all of yer. Are you understanding what we’re saying to yer?’
Fariq was still in a foetal position, semi-conscious, but coming to his senses fast as the heat from the rivet passing through the pitched cone was coming into contact with the flesh. His body went into an uncontrolled fit of intense pain from which there was no respite.
Sledge leaned over the screaming Fariq, ‘Here’s a nice sharp axe — cut your hand off if it gets too work for you.’ He placed the axe into Fariq’s right hand turned to Tony, ‘Come on, he won’t be causing us anymore trouble.’ He smiled, bent down and picked the rivets he had dropped among Fariq’s knees and hurriedly walked after Tony whose concentration was still on his left ear in spite of the screaming man writhing in agony behind him trying to axe his hand off at the wrist.
* * *
The Red Indian known as, Bear, was a high-crane operator. And like many of his race was totally fearless of heights. Indeed, it was said that without men like him Chicago’s sky line would never have been built. To see the man tip-toeing along the gantry of a crane to release a captured cable from a pulley was a sight to behold with the shout from others looking up into the sky of, ‘There he goes again! That red-skin’ll come a cropper one of these days,’ often heard.
Born to the tribe Sioux in 1890 at South Dakota, he was one of scarce few babies to have survived annihilation by the Seventh Cavalry of 200 men, women, and children known as Wounded Knee. Taken in and brought up by a Mormon family on passage to Kaysville, Utah, he was educated and treated with the respect of equality not of their faith but what they considered of as his own: one of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel; and given him their family name of Adams. Christian: Ishmael.
At the age of twenty he left his surrogate family to find work and his own way to New York contracting through Chicago The result of an accidental looming war in Europe, the president, Woodrow Wilson; seeing America being dragged in anytime soon, recognised there would be a sudden demand for labour and advertised for workers in and around the Hudson’s New York dockyards. Bear had little trouble obtaining employment as ships rigger and crane operator.
Doing maintenance work on a crane windlass he mistook the sound of a screaming man from a cable coming through a pulley being due to a lack of grease. Noticing it was still howling when he put the brake on he switched the motor off. The sound hit an unknown subliminal memory deep within him. From a distant past. Of a screaming people with medieval weapons against fire power of canon from an aggressor that were hell bent on their containment for good and all.
He recovered his senses to recognise the screams were coming from the rope shop warehouse. He ran in its direction discarding a tin of grease and a rag as he did so. Coming on the man, he recognised as Fariq; seeing smoke coming from his left hand, smelling burning pitch and flesh he kicked the axe from his hand that he was to sever his wrist, picked him up, and ran with him to the edge of the nearest basin full of sea water and leaped. Dropping twenty or so feet he was mindful of the one of the many step ledges used for ships’ maintenance when the basin was emptied. Leaning forward to avoid it as they fell he skimmed the slimy green seaweed that was growing along its length with his backside, dropped the remainder, missing a next one and hit the water like a bomb. Other dockyard workers having seen what had happened threw ropes and buoys into the basin. Bear had lost Fariq in the impact and was repeatedly diving down into the unclear water trying to get a blind hold on him. The fourth dive, this time to the bottom, he came across two bodies, knowing neither of which was Fariq he pulled the two of them to the surface. Recognising Fariq as alive and the other semi-decomposed, dead, and covered in green crabs, let go. Other men were down to the level of the step ledge to give him a hand, and one-on-one they managed the two men: Fariq now conscious they pulled him back up, and cut the jute bandage from his fist and removed the cold rivet that left an impression of itself like a fossil in clay. He looked at it. It was bad, but not as bad as not having a hand.
Bear loosened his still clinging arm from around his neck. ‘How you feeling?’
He croaked a reply: ‘I think I’ve lost my voice. Again.’
PART ONE
CHAPTER 2 – 1920
Nathaniel Claypole lit his pipe, drew in the smoke, coughed gently and put his tongue out. The kerosene was getting into everything – his sandwiches, his clothes and his tobacco. He put the pipe down and adjusted the wick on the stove for the umpteenth time that morning.
Daniel Thomas studied his ability to blend in with the job that he thought the other obviously unsuited and that he would never carry off. But he’d been wrong. He looked as if he’d been a wharf master all his life. He was also not a little surprised at his own abilities to do the same. He said he heard that the man that had taken a beating from Marco Giuseppi’s people was coming back that morning.
Nathaniel Claypole looked up from the pot-bellied stove, nodded, and carried on attending it. Having made his adjustments he wiped his carbon stained hands on a piece of rag, threw it to one side and with his curled pipe puffing gently in his mouth, and to his apparent satisfaction, went to the window of the hut and looked out. Coming through the dock gates he saw the start of two thousand men pouring through to start their shifts. Among them, the limp and slow man in question: Fariq Mihalyvich. He thought the man stupid for standing up to people that were clearly out of his league when it came to violence, but for all that he admired his tenacity to motivate others to stand their corner. It was a pity that he would not come out of this unscathed; but they had their own agenda and nothing was going to get in the way of that. They had the answers, and this project would be driven through, whoever was in the way, good, bad or indifferent.
‘If you’re that interested, here’s your man. Don’t get involved, remember we’re for Marco Giuseppi’s interest, not his.’
Daniel Thomas went to the window and peered out into the morning fog. ‘He’s looking rough though.’
Nathaniel Claypole opened the hut door and called out after him. ‘Hey, Mihalyvich, over here.’
Fariq heard the wharf master calling him and headed in his direction.
‘How is it?’
‘Stiff!’ he replied looking at both men in turn with a wry smile on his face and sensing what might pass as concern tried to shrug it off with an, ‘I’ll manage,’ but was neither convincing nor reassuring.
Nathaniel couldn’t help liking the man, and thought he’d try a little warning off – give him a chance. After all, if he could help him, there was no real reason why he shouldn’t. ‘You reckon,’ Nathaniel said, ‘you don’t look it, and with Marco Giuseppi’s men making such a mess of you, the word is, you’ve lost the fight.’
Daniel Thomas, not privy to his partner’s motives sensed his words harsh – for all that true – chipped in for reassurance. ‘They got family. Responsibilities-’
‘That’s as maybe, and more reason for them to stay healthy, but we’re wasting our time, Daniel, the man’s stubborn,’ the wharf master said, ‘look at him. You’ll wind up dead, Mihalyvich, Giuseppi’s got the blessing of the boss’s, don’t forget that, you’re a loser on all sides.’
‘You’re forgetting something aren’t you, Nathaniel?’ Fariq said.
‘What’d you talking about?’
‘The job. The job, what else? When you looked like you would be losing yours, when Giuseppi first came along, remember?’
Daniel Thomas smiled to himself. He had to take his hat off to him. The way Nathaniel handled that, was good acting. When Giuseppi said he would take over the wharf mastering operation — for real.
Nathaniel brushed the comment off. ‘Yeh, well the boss’s wanted more, you know, there was a war on, we organised ourselves into a team, went and saw the boss’s said that we’d control the labour ourselves, there would be no need for any outsiders, and they agreed — I’m grateful to you for that, Mihalyvich — but things have moved on....’
‘They haven’t moved on that far, Nathaniel.’ Fariq said. ‘We’ve
got good teams clearing ships, on time, every time. We’ve done a good job for you and made you look good into the bargain.’
‘Yeh, well, for some reason the boss’s gave Marco Giuseppi a chance to run things....’
Fariq angrily butted in. ‘And you went along with them, Nathaniel. Agreed that on condition you keep your job, you won’t interfere anymore. And you fucking believed them?’
Daniel played along. ‘That right, Nathaniel?’
The wharf master acted furious. ‘Who told you that, come on, who ‘cause it wasn’t like that, whoever told you that - it’s a lie?’
‘Tony fucking! Di Sotto told me, before I bit a lump of his ear off, and they did this to me.’ Fariq pulled his trouser legs up exposing two bruised, swollen and deformed kneecaps, black below and presumably, blue above – held out the palm of his hand with their scar and wrist with its blunt bruising.
Daniel drew in a breath at the sight.
Nathaniel Claypole shook his head, ‘Christ! I’m real sorry that it come to that but believes me whatever Tony Di Sotto said wasn’t like that. All right my job was on the line if I didn’t agree to let Giuseppi manage things but we was to be working alongside him. It’s only just happened I never got the chance to tell you. It never was part of the deal that Giuseppi was to be running things with violence in mind and taking a cut for it.’
‘Well it certainly looks like that. And before you start deciding what side you’re on, Nathaniel, think again, your employment won’t be any safer than anyone else’s; there’s still nothing stopping Giuseppi putting one of his own into your job. You should’ve told me sooner of the new arrangements.’
‘And when you don’t pay Giuseppi for job protection and they start bringing in others, what then?’ Daniel said.
Fariq shrugged his shoulders. ‘They need ships clearing!’
Nathaniel said resignedly, ‘They’re queuing up outside to do that for less than their paying you ...’
‘Monkeys and unreliables – the best are here, and they know it.’
