The venom was back in Armstrong’s voice. “Aye, so we will offer the petition to Finality Jack Russell and his Whigs, and if he turns it down again, why, then we will have an army ready up here. Thanks to you and others like you.”
So that was it, simple and direct, the iron fist of physical force hidden within the velvet glove of the petition.
“Have you seen enough?” Armstrong did not flinch when one of the watching destitute threw a stone which bounced off the carriage. “Do you want to see more poverty, more suffering, more dirt and disease, or shall we travel to our antidote for this disease?”
Mendick was used to the slums of London and had known the decaying Old Town of Edinburgh; he had seen the teeming morasses of cities in China and the Middle East, but he was still shocked by Manchester. This town was famed as one of the leading industrial centres of the world; if it treated its people in such a manner, then any future for the working majority seemed grim.
“I think we need an antidote,” he said.
There was quite a crowd gathered now, with more missiles bouncing off the body of the coach. He heard Peter shout and saw his whip crack in front of the attackers.
“Peter! Leave them be!” Armstrong shouted. “They are not the enemy; they are just victims. But get us to the village, now.” He leaned back. “You look surprised, Mr Mendick. Perhaps Manchester is not as you expected?”
“I am not exactly sure what I expected,” Mendick admitted, “but I was surprised myself to see you had a carriage. I thought only the rich could afford such a thing.”
The sudden sour grin took him off guard. “It’s not mine,” Armstrong said. “Let’s just say that I borrowed it, horse, carriage and all. I only own the driver.”
Mendick thought it best to appear impressed. “You borrowed an entire carriage? Does the owner not mind?”
“The owner has many carriages,” Armstrong said, “he will not miss one.” The grin widened, revealing stumps of teeth. “We have an arrangement.”
“You stole it,” Mendick accused, “from a gentleman.” He looked at the sordid streets outside. “That was a daring act, Mr Armstrong.”
“Oh, we are full of daring acts, Mr Mendick, as you will see.”
Stealing something as expensive as a carriage would mean transportation at the very least, but as a returned Demonian, Armstrong was probably facing the death penalty anyway. Mendick settled back on the seat and shuffled his feet in the deep straw. He was quite used to travelling in an omnibus but had never been in a private carriage before; more amenable company might even have made this experience enjoyable.
“Jesus!” The brougham rocked as a barrage of missiles clattered off the coachwork, and it mounted the kerb. It crashed back on to the ground, jarring Mendick and knocking Armstrong from his seat.
“What the hell!” Armstrong lifted his voice into a hoarse roar. “Peter! What sort of driving is that? It’s the black hole for you!”
“The what?” Mendick asked.
Armstrong pulled himself back onto the seat, rubbing one hand across his back and grimacing with obvious pain.
“The black hole; you’ll see later. It’s the only way to keep Peter under control. He doesn’t understand anything else, the ignorant slubber.”
Mendick nodded, mildly interested that a Chartist delegate should speak so callously of a fellow worker. He sat back; his next step was to find Sergeant Ogden and then telegraph Inspector Field to inform him of his progress. Closing his eyes, he wondered at the turn of events. Ten days ago he had been an ordinary constable in London, now he was sitting opposite a red-capped revolutionary on a mad careen through Manchester, bound for God knew where to do the devil knew what.
He sighed, wondering what Emma would think of him now.
“Where did you say we were going?”
“I didn’t.”
Armstrong was back to his old cagey self. His eyes challenged Mendick to ask another question. Instead, Mendick listened as the grinding of the wheels altered to a lighter rumble, and the drumming of the horse’s hooves softened to a rhythmic throb. They had obviously left the town and were on a country road, with the horse thumping through mud and the carriage swaying on an uneven surface, and the occasional branch scraping alarmingly across the bodywork.
“Not long now,” Armstrong broke a long silence, “and you can begin your work.” He leaned forward. “You have an army to train, for we have a country to set to rights.”
“An army? How big an army?”
“You’ll see, by and by.” Armstrong’s smile twisted his mouth further, but his eyes were as cold as December sleet. “You boasted of your military experience and your commitment to the Chartist cause. Now you can prove it.” He produced a percussion pistol from his coat. “Of course, if I find that you have been throwing the hatchet, then . . .” He pointed the pistol full at Mendick’s face. “I will kill you stone dead.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lancashire: December 1847
Rain pattered rapidly on the exterior of the coach as Peter negotiated a series of increasingly jolting tracks. The coach rocked and rolled along the rutted country lanes, rattling between dripping trees and past well-cultivated fields until they eventually stopped at a brick stable.
“Straight in, Peter!” Armstrong yelled, and Peter, swathed in a box coat stretched to splitting point, hastily leaped down from the driver’s perch, opened the stable door and then drove inside.
“It’s only a small step from here,” Armstrong said. “Peter, join us once you have dealt with the horse.”
“Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter had spoken over his shoulder, but there was a noticeable tremble in his voice.
“This way.”
Walking with that awkwardly hunched gait, Armstrong followed a winding footpath to the summit of a heavily wooded knoll. Rain pelted through the bare branches above to cascade on to their heads and shoulders.
“I’ll have to stop for a moment,” Armstrong said, gasping as he leaned his hand against the trunk of a wind-twisted birch.
“Take your time.”
A small but broad valley stretched ahead, dull under the hissing rain. Sad trees and small steadings sat stolidly amidst a patchwork of square fields, while a church stood in everlasting promise within its own grassy grounds.
“Take a good look,” Armstrong advised. “This is your new home.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Mendick said. He was not sure about the implications.
“But few better.” There was genuine pride in Armstrong’s voice. “You’ll know all about O’Connor’s Land Plan.”
Mendick nodded. “Of course.”
It was an idea of the Chartists to fight the horrors of industrialisation by having people work on their own piece of land.
“Well, this is the end result: Chartertown. Just over a hundred acres divided into thirty-five smallholdings, each one between two and four acres, with a specially built comfortable cottage. O’Connor raised a subscription to purchase the land, and he is creating a Chartist settlement here in Lancashire.”
Mendick nodded. After seeing the terrible conditions in which most Mancunians seemed to live, he had only respect for O’Connor’s utopian ideas.
“It seems a fine place, Mr Armstrong, but I thought I was to train an army?”
“All in good time.” Armstrong seemed pleased with Mendick’s commitment. He began to walk down the hill, rotating his shoulders as if he were in pain. “First we have to attend to Peter.”
The giant coachman had followed them, walking so quietly that Mendick had scarcely heard his feet flatten the sodden grass.
“Please . . .” Peter cowered as Armstrong took hold of his shoulder. “I could not help it; they were throwing stones at the horses.”
“You knocked me from my seat,” Armstrong pushed the huge man in front of him, “so it’s the black hole for you.”
“Please, Mr Armstrong, the horse was scared.”
“And you’ll be scared now, Peter, alone in
the dark with the spiders and the slithering things.” Armstrong said the words slowly, obviously ensuring that the giant man understood the full implications.
“Yes.” Peter was crying, great tears rolling down his rough face. “Don’t put me there, Mr Armstrong, please don’t.”
Mendick watched with some interest. He must have seen hundreds of miscreants being led to the cells, some defiant, others weeping or affecting mocking nonchalance, so one more made little difference to him. Nevertheless, Peter seemed capable of killing the much slighter Armstrong with just one swing of a mighty arm, so it was strange to see him obeying an obviously objectionable command so meekly.
“Come along, Peter, or it will be the worse for you.” Armstrong showed neither remorse nor anger as he hurried Peter along to the first of the buildings in the valley.
The black hole was a stone structure with no windows and only a single small door, outside which Peter hesitated, holding on to the wall. He was whimpering pitifully,
“Please, Mr Armstrong, I was afraid they would hurt the horse. Please don’t make me go in there.”
“Get in,” Armstrong ordered quietly, “or you’ll be there for a week.”
Squeezing under the low threshold, Peter immediately turned to face them. His eyes reminded Mendick of a terrified puppy.
“I’ll allow you out when I think you’ve learned your lesson,” Armstrong said, “and that might be a long time.” He rubbed his back as if the minor fall inside the coach had caused him great pain.
“I’m sorry,” Peter wailed, but Armstrong banged shut the heavy wooden door and dragged two iron bolts into position. Peter’s whines rose in pitch.
“Ignore the shine,” Armstrong advised. “He can’t come to any harm in there, and it keeps him under control. I’ll let him out tomorrow morning and not before.”
Immediately dismissing his prisoner, he indicated the settlement with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome to Chartertown, Mr Mendick. What do you think of the new utopia?”
Turning his back on the lock-up, Mendick took a long look around the valley. The smallholdings looked comfortable under the rain, and each field was neat and carefully kept.
“I can see why people would want to live here,” he said. “But don’t the neighbours object to having a Chartist community in their midst?”
“Not in the least.” Armstrong seemed to be almost choking with repressed satisfaction. “We are hard by Trafford land, and he has not the slightest objection.”
“Trafford land? Sir Robert Trafford?”
“The very same.”
The irony was unmistakable. Sir Robert Trafford was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, a landowner of the old school, one of the regulars in the clubs of St James and Piccadilly and surely one of the worst enemies that the Chartists could have. When Trafford was not hunting with the Quorn, he was flicking cards across the green baize tables of London’s gambling hells, while rumour insisted that he also made free play with society ladies or anyone else in a skirt.
“Let me show you around,” Armstrong offered suddenly, surprisingly genial now that Peter was locked safely away.
Chartertown comprised a scatter of detached cottages, each set within its enclosed rectangular fields. At the head of the village stood the square church, with a simple tower from which rose a flagpole, but rather than flying the Union Flag or the Cross of St George, a green Chartist banner drooped in the rain. Backing on to the church was a swathe of meadow stretching to the skeletal trees of a regular plantation that marked the end of the enclave.
“We seem to have everything we need,” Mendick said.
“It’s a small beginning,” Armstrong told him, “but we have over a thousand acres of land in England, and 70,000 people hoping to return to the land.” He spat on the ground. “So much for the industrialists with their hellish working hours which tear families apart.” There was fierce pride as he looked around him. “We don’t have a total utopia, but it’s worth fighting for, and that’s where you come in. Walk with me.”
As they moved through the settlement, a silent phalanx of men formed in their wake. Aged from their late teens to their early thirties, some wore fustian clothing, others moleskin trousers and smocks, but all looked painfully undernourished. Some were wide-eyed innocents; others had the solid maturity of married men while a few would certainly have cut their mother’s throat for a shilling or a free drink. The only unifying factor seemed to be the universal determination with which they marched.
Armstrong led them to the meadow behind the church.
“This is our training ground,” he announced with a short gesture of his arm, “and Trafford land begins inside that belt of trees.” He grimaced, twisting his back. “Somebody once said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. Well, we have no Eton, but we do have this field, and in place of the Duke of Wellington, we have Mr Eccles here.” He indicated a wiry, swarthy man who was looking penetratingly at Mendick. “And we now have you.”
“I’m hardly Wellington,” Mendick said.
“Maybe not, but you fight for a better cause. Wellington fought to maintain the status quo in Britain and to return the monarchical system to Europe. You will fight to create a fairer world. This will be your playing field, Mr Mendick, and this is the vanguard of the Chartist army.” Once again there was pride in Armstrong’s voice as he presented his collection of agricultural labourers and mill workers. “These are the men you are to train.” He stepped back and watched Mendick survey his command.
More like a forlorn hope than a vanguard, they stood in ragged rows, fifty men in tattered clothes, looking at Mendick through patient eyes. Most carried broomsticks or tree branches, some carried blackthorn cudgels, a few carried pikes, and a handful, a desperately pathetic handful, held a musket.
“Good God in heaven.” Mendick shook his head. He remembered the recruits trickling into the 26th: young men, old men, men in need of food, men who only desired drink, men who lacked the mental capacity to load and fire a musket and men who had slithered down the social scale to the ranks, and he shivered. Whereas there had always been an organisation to care for the Johnny Raws - a hierarchy of veteran soldiers who had grown old and wise in the ways of the British Army - he had only himself.
Armstrong grunted and touched the breast of his coat, where the bulge was a reminder of the threat he had made.
“Have you been throwing the hatchet, Mr Mendick? Have you been lying to us?” His eyes exuded detestation for anybody who stood in the way of his Chartist dreams.
“Stand aside, Mr Armstrong,” Mendick advised. “I know little of politics, but this is work I do understand.” Walking slowly along the front rank, he looked into each face, watching as the chins stiffened and the mouths hardened under his gaze. He nodded slowly.
“Right, lads,” he addressed them quietly, foregoing the bullying rant that so many drill sergeants considered necessary. “We have a lot of work to do, and I’m just the man for the job.” These men were volunteers for a cause, not a variety of misfits to be hammered into regimental unity; rather than raving, he would encourage.
“You don’t know me yet, but I am James Mendick, late sergeant of the 26th Foot. I am here to turn you into soldiers fit to fight for the cause, men who will turn the tide of history, remove injustice from the country and ensure that everybody has a fair chance.”
The volunteers were listening intently, some craning forward to hear better, others stepping closer. When he paused, one volunteer raised a thin cheer.
Mendick stopped that nonsense with an uplifted hand. About to blast the man’s impertinence, he thought of the pitiful streets from where these people came.
“It’s not time for celebrations yet, my friend. Let’s achieve something first.”
Shocked at his own mildness, he realised he was sliding from his real purpose and beginning to empathise with the Chartists. He had already gathered enough information to have Monaghan and Armstrong hanged and these poor deluded fools
transported to the other side of the world. Forcing himself to look at them through the eyes of a policeman, rather than victims he saw potential rioters and revolutionaries, miscreants and murderers. And then Eccles approached him.
“Thank you, Sergeant Mendick.” Eccles thrust forward his hand, ducking in a nervous bow. “Please teach us how to fight.” He hesitated for a second. “I lost my sister to the fever last year, and my mother died the year before.”
His face was drawn and pinched, yet Mendick recalled Armstrong’s words about the short life span of men in Manchester and guessed that he was not above twenty years.
“I’ll do what I can,” he promised, suddenly hating Eccles for his pathetic gratitude. He must push his primary mission aside to concentrate on the present task, which was to turn this tatterdemalion mob into soldiers. If he convinced Armstrong of his commitment, he might learn who was financing this rabble.
Raising his voice, Mendick addressed the Chartists, “Right then, let’s get started. Has anybody here got any military experience?” They looked at him blankly.
“No? All right then, let’s see you march around this field. Keep moving until I stop you.” He watched them as they marched like Johnny Raw recruits with clumsy limbs and stiff bodies.
Armstrong tapped his shoulder. “Most of these men have never been out of their parish before,” he said quietly, “but we’ve been looking for a reliable drill instructor for some time. The last man was a lush. We had to get rid of him before he got in his cups and spoke too much.” Again he tapped the bulge in his jacket.
The tramp of shuffling Chartists was suddenly sinister. They trailed in front of him, their boots thudding in the mud and their faces taut with concentration. The setting matched their appearance, with the trees stark in their nudity, gaunt branches clawing at a sour grey sky.
“How did you get rid of him?” Mendick tried to make the question sound innocent.
Armstrong dropped his hand. “Peter was a prize fighter; he took him for a walk and came back alone.”
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 7
