Armstrong disembarked, one hand holding his red cap to his head and the other placed for balance on the door of the coach. He wore a smart chesterfield with a velvet collar, but none of the wives smiled at him.
“Here we are indeed.” He looked around the settlement as if he had never seen it before, his mouth twisted by that sinister scar. “Where are the men? Where are the soldiers of the Charter?”
“Celebrating Christmas with their families, Mr Armstrong,” Mendick said. He could almost feel the spiteful chill emanating from the man.
“There’ll be time for celebrating when the fight is won.” Armstrong sounded more smug than angry. “Get them formed up, man; I’ve brought them something that will transform their lives forever!”
“But it’s Christmas.” Mendick tried to gain an extra few minutes more for his men, but he knew that the day had already changed.
“Tell that to Finality Jack.” Mendick grunted. Trust a Chartist to use the nickname attached to Lord Russell ever since he had called the 1832 Reform Act the final solution. Armstrong frowned.
“Now get them out here, or I will send Peter to do it for you.”
It took ten minutes to prise the volunteers away from their wives and children, and Mendick had to close his mind to the expressions of dismay on so many faces as he paraded them beside the coach. They stood to attention, each man more erect than his neighbour and for a moment Mendick was proud of the progress he had made. He could feel the families gathering behind him, asking questions and wondering why their Christmas was being disrupted. The sound of sobbing children nearly obscured the song of a solitary robin.
“They’re coming on.” Armstrong ignored the disappointed families as he glowered at the volunteers. “They look fit and healthy.” He raised his eyebrows. “And better fed than before.”
“We did some foraging,” Mendick admitted. He was unsure how Armstrong would view his independent actions.
“Aye? Be careful. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves in any way. Not yet.” Armstrong nudged him with a sharp elbow. “But we’ve not long to go now. Wait until you see what we have inside the carriage.” His sudden grin reminded Mendick of a week old corpse, and then he signalled to Peter, who plunged inside the coach and dragged out a very familiar crate.
“Do you recognise this?” Armstrong asked, and for a second Mendick wondered if he had been seen in the cellar after all, but Armstrong continued with hardly a pause. “I’ll wager that you do! These crates are exactly the same as those used in the British Army, and we both know what they contain.” His voice cracked with excitement as he opened the crate.
“Look at this, boys! Just look at what I have for you!” Holding up a musket, Armstrong grinned to the men, who remained in rigid lines as they had been instructed. “This is an India Pattern Brown Bess, the same as the redcoats use. Come over then, and look!”
While a few of the men surged forward, most looked for Mendick’s approval before they moved, some to grab a musket and hold it as if were made of gold, others to glance apologetically at their wives. Only Mendick saw the shock on the faces of their families; while training with sticks and staves had made violence seem only theoretical, these muskets brought home the reality of what might happen. Armstrong might have brought gifts, but they were not the embodiment of the Christmas spirit.
“Now we can overturn the government,” Preston said, running a calloused hand up the length of the brown barrel. “Now we can bring work and houses and feed the people. Now we’ll show these bastards.” He was shaking his head, his eyes moist with emotion.
As most were, Mendick realised. He had expected an outpouring of rage, expressions of hatred and the desire to slaughter, but instead he saw mostly relief, a hope for a better life and a yearning to get the job finished as soon as possible. Yet again these Chartists had surprised him, increasing his affection for the men he was training to be slaughtered. Only two volunteers hung back, one youngster who could not have been more than seventeen and a balding, middle-aged man who held his musket as if it were the handle of a plough and clung to the arm of his wife.
“They’re good men, Mr Armstrong,” Mendick said. “I don’t want them wasted.”
“Wasted?” Armstrong guided him away from the volunteers as Peter unloaded a box of bayonets and handed them out. “I can’t tell you too much yet, but I can reveal a little now that you’ve proved yourself. Peter says that you have been very dedicated, training the men hard, and not only in simple drills but in skirmishing and foraging too.”
“Of course.” Mendick resolved to let Peter win their next few card games, at the very least. “These muskets are impressive, Mr Armstrong; they appear to be quality weapons, not some Brummagem rubbish for the African market. If they’re the India Pattern or the 1842 Short Land Pattern, then they’re equal to the best used by the British Army!” He tried to sound casual. “Can I ask from where they come?”
Armstrong shook his head. “That I am not at liberty to say. But I can reveal that we have help in high places. Unexpected places too.” The warped grin seemed only to augment the acid in his eyes. “We will make an impact this time; that I promise you.”
Mendick decided to push a little harder. “We’ll need more than fifty men, then, if we want to make an impact,” he said. “Fifty men won’t last long against the whole Queen’s army.”
“We have more than fifty.” Armstrong’s grin writhed around his mouth as he watched the Chartists examine their muskets. “We have a few more in other places.”
“A few more?” Mendick was uncertain how far to probe, but any fragment of information could help nip this insurrection in the bud. He saw Mrs Preston exchange a child for her husband’s musket and hold it at arm’s length, as if it were something vile. Should he condemn that woman to widowhood? Or should he break her dream and send her man back to the hellish long hours and shockingly low pay that industry demanded of its victims?
“How many is a few?”
Armstrong lifted a musket, his fleshless claws closing on the stock. Keeping both eyes open, he sighted on the church tower and pulled back the hammer.
“I can say that this unit is only one of several that we have stationed all around the country.” He pressed the trigger and the hammer clicked down ominously.
Mendick nodded. “I thought that we were too small a group to overturn the government.” He would have to relay this intelligence to Mr Smith as soon as one of his pigeons returned. “So how many of us are there, Mr Armstrong?”
“Again, I am not at liberty to impart that information.” Armstrong’s face closed. “But suffice to say that the establishment,” he made the word sound like a sneer, “will be dismayed at the power we can command.”
Mendick forced an eager smile. “So when do we act? When can I lead these men against the Whigs?” He hesitated a little. “I would like another few weeks, if possible. They are good, but not yet up to the standard of regular line infantry. For one thing, now they have muskets, they have to be taught to shoot.”
“Which I am sure you will do very well.” Armstrong seemed pleased at Mendick’s enthusiasm. “We have more than sufficient powder and ball, and I can assure you that you will be given advance warning.”
“And the noise?” Mendick probed deeper, pushing Armstrong as far as he dared. “Fifty men volley-firing creates a tremendous shine; the neighbours will be bound to hear. . .”
Again Armstrong looked gratified, his red cap bobbing as he nodded.
“You mean Sir Robert Trafford? Don’t you worry about him. Mr Monaghan has Trafford well numbered and filed. You shoot away all you like, and remember that every ball is a tiny lead nail in the coffin of the government! He’s a fine man, is Mr Monaghan, and a first class leader. Indeed, he wants to see you.” Delving into the tail pocket of his coat, Armstrong produced a sealed letter. “This is your invitation. I think he’s going to tell you . . .” Armstrong shook his head. “Perhaps I should not say, yet. Although I can guarantee th
at you will find the meeting very interesting.”
Mendick kept his face immobile although he felt the tension build inside him at the prospect of discovering more about the mysteries that surrounded this surreal insurrection. Armstrong seemed to be watching him very closely, as if gauging his reaction.
“Thank you, Mr Armstrong.” He held the letter, feeling the rich quality of the paper. “It will be an honour to meet Mr Monaghan again.”
His name was written in neat, bold characters, but there were no other words on the front. He was aware only of a premonition of evil tidings as Armstrong gave his twisted smile.
*
Sitting by the evening fire, he watched Peter stare blankly into the flames as he opened his letter.
Mr Mendick, the letter read. Pray attend a meeting at the Beehive on the 7th January at 9 PM. There was no signature, nothing incriminating to send to Scotland Yard.
“Very clandestine,” he said and shook his head when Peter asked what he was reading. “Just an invitation to meet somebody,” he said, showing the single sheet of paper.
“I’m no scholar,” Peter told him, staring at the letter in incomprehension. “I never went to school.”
“I see.” Mendick once again wondered if the Chartists might have a point about the shocking division of society.
“I’ll learn sometime though.” Peter leaned closer, as if proximity would clarify the mystery of the printed word. “I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not,” Mendick reassured him. “Stupid people can’t drive coaches.”
“That’s right,” Peter said seriously. “They can’t, can they? Stupid people could never drive a coach as good as me.” Fetching the cards, he cut and dealt. “And stupid people can’t count the numbers in a pack of cards, either.” He pulled his chair over to the table. “Fellow Chartists?”
“Fellow Chartists,” Mendick confirmed, hating himself for the trusting pleasure in Peter’s eyes.
*
The barman waved him straight into the back room of the Beehive, and Mendick entered the familiar combination of stale tobacco smoke and gaunt faces. On his last visit, every man present had been suspicious, but now they nodded a quiet welcome; they had accepted him. Even Armstrong looked less hostile than normal as he lowered himself into the seat nearest to the door, although the bulge in his jacket was a reminder. Mendick pushed away the thought of the pepperpot revolver which lay concealed under a slab in the cottage; if the Chartists caught him carrying it he would be as good as dead.
“You are all familiar with the work that Mr Mendick has been doing.” Monaghan rose from his position at the head of the table. “He has spent the last month training a detachment of our men, and by all accounts, they are now among the best we have.”
The atmosphere lightened further; some of the anonymous faces even relaxed into cautious smiles.
“So you are continuing the good work you started in the East.” Rachel Scott emerged from behind the fug of tobacco smoke. Mendick watched her step to the head of the table, her clothes patched and her accent once more rough-edged. “You are part of the movement now, Mr Mendick, and that no man can deny.”
“Nor would want to,” a balding delegate said quietly. He looked over to his companions. “I heard that you have also trained your volunteers in foraging and picketing?”
“I have, sir,” Mendick confirmed, but let’s hope that there is never a need to test their skills.”
The delegates nodded their approval and the balding man spoke soberly, “Aye, we would all agree with that. Nobody wants to shed blood, but the best defence is to possess the means of attack.”
“Please God it does not come to that,” an elderly man whispered, “I was at Peterloo when the dragoons charged. I saw what sabres can do to unarmed people, and God forbid we ever witness such a thing again.”
Monaghan’s Liverpool Irish accent was very prominent as he replied, “If they do unleash another Peterloo on us, we will be ready for them, thanks to Mr Mendick and those like him.”
“Aye,” the elderly man agreed, still whispering. “I was ten at the time, but I still remember the panic.”
Mendick did a quick calculation; if the elderly man had only been ten at the time of Peterloo in 1819, then he was under forty years old now. Such was the effect of industrial living conditions that he looked at least twenty years older, with grey skin pulled taut over a deeply lined face.
“This time,” Rachel Scott said, “the dragoons will be met with men trained and carrying muskets equal to anything that the British Army has.”
The balding delegate began to clap, and one by one the others joined in, until they were standing around the table in a show of Chartist solidarity, respectable working men driven past the point of toleration until they were willing to challenge the might of the established state.
“Our muskets are superior to those carried by some army units.” Mendick thought it might do no harm to reveal a little of his expertise. “We have the 1842 Pattern, with percussion caps. This means they are more reliable than the old flintlocks, particularly in wet weather.” He remembered the hectic affair outside Canton, when rain had rendered the British muskets useless and the Chinese attacked with spears.
Scott gave her unique laugh. “Perhaps we should only fight in the rain?”
“We? You won’t be fighting at all,” the balding man said sardonically, and for a second Scott looked surprised, as if she had not expected such a reaction.
“We all fight in our own way,” Monaghan soothed away the tension, “but I have a question or two to ask.” Again Mendick experienced a feeling of dread.
“Of course,” he said, automatically measuring the distance to the door. There were half a dozen delegates in his way, and Armstrong sat in the chair nearest the door with one leg stretched in front of him and that sinister bulge inside his jacket. Mendick wondered if Peter was waiting outside.
“You are an experienced soldier,” Monaghan said, “and you have spent some weeks training our volunteers. If it comes to actual fighting, do you think that our men will stand against regulars?”
It was an obvious question, but one that could not be easily answered. Should he praise the men and possibly encourage the Chartists to rise, or say that they were not ready and endanger his position and possibly his life. If in doubt, tell the truth.
“That depends on many factors,” he said. “On who leads them, on why they are fighting, and on the behaviour of us and the enemy on the day.”
It seemed strange to be referring to the British Army as the enemy, and with a jolt he realised that the men he had trained might be facing the 26th Foot, his old regiment.
“That we understand,” Monaghan said, “but if conditions are favourable, will they stand?”
Mendick thought of swarthy, clever Eccles, the straightforward Preston and quiet Duffy. They would be good men in any army.
“Aye,” he said. “Aye, they will stand.” And they will die, he thought, once the regulars fire their aimed volleys and the artillery find the range. Mrs Preston would be a widow, grieving hopelessly as her man lay, a smashed ruin on his own native soil.
“Good, that’s their job.” Monaghan nodded his satisfaction. “And one more question: will the Army fight against their countrymen?”
Would he have fought the Chartists? Mendick pondered for a few moments before replying.
“Some will not,” he said. “Some would rather desert, and a handful might even switch sides, but most will fight for the regiment as they did at Newport in ’39. The habit of discipline is hard to break.”
The silence in the room told him that the delegates were considering his words.
“Then so be it,” Monaghan said quietly. “We will welcome the deserters as brothers and face the rest musket to musket.” The delegates agreed solemnly.
“Thank you, Mr Mendick, you are doing a sterling job.” Monaghan was first to shake his hand, with a surprisingly silent Armstrong close behind, and one by
one every delegate came to him with a smile of fraternal acceptance. Rachel Scott was last, her hand softer than that of everybody else but her congratulations sounding no less genuine. She held his eye for a fraction longer than necessary and brushed her hip against him as she turned away.
“It is good to belong to such an organisation,” Mendick said, and, shockingly, he realised that he was speaking the truth. He looked around at the company of men, with their haggard faces and eyes bitter with repression, and he realised the fundamental decency within them. Even Armstrong may have been sincere behind that bitter exterior.
They were fighting in the only way left open to them.
Suddenly he understood the true meaning of fraternity; not the camaraderie of the army, where enforced suffering thrust men together, but the day-by-day struggle of life, the knowledge that everybody shared the same hunger and everybody was part of a greater whole. He swallowed, choking back the salt tears he had suppressed since the death of Emma. He was accepted here; these men trusted him, and he was duty bound to betray them to the very authorities whose repression they were attempting to remove.
“Now, a drink, I think.” Monaghan made the decision, adding further cheer to the room, and within minutes he was pouring measures of gin into eagerly held tumblers and the grim-faced men were exchanging greetings with Mendick and asking him about his experiences in the army.
Monaghan allowed them a few minutes before he rapped on the table and called for order. For the next hour they discussed the finances of the Chartist movement, the growing unrest in Ireland and the political turmoil in the Italian states before Monaghan closed the meeting with a few words.
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen, but some of us must continue to pursue the cause.” As expected, he received a ripple of laughter. “Mr Mendick, I would appreciate your company for the remainder of the evening. Mr Armstrong and Miss Scott will also be required.”
Mendick glanced at Armstrong, who held his eyes but retained his cynical sneer, while Scott did not look up from the scrap of paper that she was studying.
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 13
