The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “I know.”

  She nodded as if something had been agreed between them. He waited but she did not say any more.

  “I’d better be going.”

  She did not reply.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Liberty is in danger of being annihilated by private influence and corruption unexampled in the annals of the world. Nothing can avail against them but zeal, discipline, activity. It particularly behoves us not to sleep upon our posts.”

  Stirring words. Dan glanced around the room. Pity that only the spy Wheeler was still awake to hear them. The upper chamber at the Boatswain and Call was hot and swirling with pipe smoke. The speaker droned on in a nasal twang like that affected by some Methodist preachers.

  Dan blocked out the talk on Reform in Parliament and tried to detect if anything was happening outside the room. It might have been his imagination, but wasn’t that the tramp of feet? And a snatch of song? And wasn’t it drawing closer?

  Still the speaker snuffled on. Broomhall was in his place at the top table, dreamily sketching on a scrap of paper. In the row in front of Dan, Metcalf sat with folded arms, giving an occasional jerk to nudge Simmons awake. Upton’s thin face was unhealthily flushed, his lids falling heavily over his glittering eyes. Someone at the back was snoring.

  Suddenly a window shattered, showering glass on the startled men sitting beneath it. The draught of cooler air brought with it the smell of smoke from guttering torches. Flickering lights chased streaks of shadow along the alley. A voice yelled, “For King and Country!” The space between the buildings rang with the pounding of feet, the roar of voices.

  The outer door splintered beneath the thuds of rams and cudgels. Broomhall sat up, his eyes wide with surprise. Metcalf and Simmons were out of their chairs, as were many others. Some, still half asleep and slow on the uptake, stood goggling at one another. Others grasped the situation more quickly and turned to face the danger. Dan grabbed a chair and smashed it on the floor, handed the pieces around as makeshift weapons. Metcalf and others followed his example.

  When Sir Richard Ford came up with a King and Country mob he certainly did not do it by half measures. The gang pounded up the stairs, kicked open the door and poured into the room. It was led by a butcher wearing a bloody apron and armed with a stun hammer, and composed largely of Smithfield’s apprentices: rough lads raised to cruelty in the slaughter house.

  For seconds the two sides panted and glared at one another. Then Broomhall yelled, “For Liberty!”, the butcher, “Death to traitors!”, and the two factions crashed into one another.

  Dan despatched the first man to come at him with a crunching blow to the chin. The second went the same way. The space around Dan cleared as the attackers veered shy of his fists and he was able to look about him. Broomhall was not doing badly; no one had drawn blood from him yet. Metcalf shuffled like a bear, his great paws knocking men to left and right. Simmons moved nimbly in and out of the fray wielding a chair leg, inflicting bloody wounds with precision. Upton, hampered by his club foot and too frail to join the fight, stood behind the table, pitching whatever came to hand at the enemy: bottles, glasses, papers, ink. Wheeler had taken a smack across the ear and slumped back into his chair by the wall, from where he watched the melee with an outraged expression: this was not what he had signed up for when he agreed to spy for the Government.

  The butcher was in his element, cracking skulls here, arms there. He was not fussy about his targets. Armed or unarmed, on feet or knees, bleeding or not, any man within range felt the weight of his hammer.

  Another man lurched at Dan and knocked him off balance. Dan righted himself, ducked and drove a punch into his midriff. He squeaked, “Ooof!” and doubled over.

  The butcher had turned on Upton, was hacking at the table with the little man trapped behind it, his back to the wall. Splinters flew to the left and right, while an ever more frantic Upton struggled to break free. The table finally collapsed, the butcher kicked the wreckage aside, and grabbed Upton by the throat. He shook him from side to side, his dangling feet drumming against the wall, his teeth rattling.

  Dan stepped up and tapped the butcher on the shoulder. He dropped the crippled man to the ground and swung round. Dan let him have it full in the face. The brute stood stupidly gazing down at Dan, then gave a great roar and went for him with the hammer. Dan dodged, defended himself with his left hand and brought in a stinger to the man’s ear. The man shook his head, his face scarlet with rage, swung back his arm and lunged again. Dan deflected the blow, grabbed the butcher’s arm and slammed it back against the wall.

  The hammer fell to the ground, but the butcher still had his enormous fists and powerful arms. Dan knew that it was not force that would win him this fight. Speed and accuracy were needed here: a blow on that ear again, the kidneys, the temples…in fast, out quickly, trusting the accumulation of well-aimed attacks on the man’s vulnerable spots to wear him down. His opponent’s lumbering punches missed home or landed on his dancing target with a fraction of the power behind them, though that was still enough to raise bruises. The rage in the man’s eyes gave way to confusion, then they glazed over as the blows began to have their effect. He sagged, groaned, and after a last couple of cracks to the nose, lost consciousness and slid down the wall.

  Seeing their leader go down took the heart out of the apprentices. First one, then another beat a retreat. When the butcher opened his eyes it was to find himself alone amongst his enemies. With a cry of dismay, he struggled to his feet, lurched across the room and stumbled down the stairs.

  Broomhall led the victors in three cheers. The jubilant men sank exhausted onto the chairs that remained intact, looked for their hats, mopped their blood, felt for broken bones. Shards of glass, wrecked furniture, scraps of torn clothing and scattered papers littered the room. Wheeler had gone.

  The landlord arrived with a couple of barmen and demanded, “Who’s going to pay for this?”

  “Let Metcalf know the cost of repairs,” Broomhall answered, “and he’ll see the bills are settled. In the meantime, bring up some brandy and glasses. Oh, and a bottle of small beer. And if you’ve any cloths to spare for bandages, they’d be welcome.” Before the landlord could say anything, he added, “I’ll pay for those too.”

  Dan, meanwhile, helped Upton on to his feet and half carried him to a seat. He was white-faced, his eyes closed, and struggling for breath. Dan loosened his collar.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  Upton’s eyelids fluttered open and he gave a weak grin. “Where doesn’t it?”

  The brandy arrived, along with a jug of hot water and some cloths. Dan grabbed a glass and put it to Upton’s lips. Broomhall and a couple of his men handed round the other glasses.

  “I got this for you,” he said, handing Dan the weak ale. He turned, raised his own drink and cried, “To Liberty!”

  When the toast was drunk, Broomhall nodded down at Upton. “How is he?”

  “Might need help getting home,” Dan said, putting down his beer after taking a sip for the toast. “Is anyone else hurt?”

  “Not seriously. You put up an impressive fight.”

  “I’ve no time for bullies.”

  “These are no ordinary bullies. The Government actively encourages them and they know that they can attack us with impunity. They call themselves loyalists, but what are they loyal to? A corrupt government, a rotten system. We have no choice but to fight back.”

  Dan looked around at the wrecked room, the bloodied radicals. Most of them had nothing to do with the United Patriots, knew as little of its existence as the mob that had attacked them, and would have been horrified to discover it in their midst. The London Corresponding Society did not stand for bloodshed, yet such violent incidents against them were nothing new. So Dan was not entirely acting when he said, “There’s no arguing with that. I’ve seen enough. When merely to talk about
the need for reform becomes a crime, the time for talking is over.”

  Broomhall smiled. “Having seen you in action just now, I’m glad you’re on our side. You’ve fought for our freedoms on a small field tonight, Bright. Do you not see yourself participating in the battle – in the war?”

  “I would, and gladly. But how?”

  “Some of us have formed a group for the defence of the nation’s rights and liberties. We have been forced to the view that the time has come for us to seize the initiative. To take action against our oppressors. There’s danger in it, but there’s hope too: the hope of a better future. Would you like to be part of that future?”

  “For the chance for men to live a decent life? You can count me in.”

  “You must understand that once in, there’s no backing out. We are all sworn to the cause and to secrecy.”

  “I’m willing to pledge myself.”

  Broomhall slapped Dan on the shoulder. “Excellent! Metcalf,” he called.

  Metcalf stepped over. He looked at Dan with no friendly eye and said, “Yes?”

  “Mr Bright has proved himself a soldier in our cause,” Broomhall said. “I have invited him to join us.”

  “Lots of men can fight with their fists,” Metcalf said.

  “But lots of men do not stand with us.”

  “How do you know he will?”

  “He is prepared to take the oath.”

  “To say words?”

  “And to do deeds,” Dan said. “Or do you think you’re the only man with the courage to act?”

  “I think I’m an honest man,” Metcalf retorted.

  “That’s enough,” Broomhall said. “You forget yourself, Metcalf. I have said Citizen Bright is in, and so he is. You can go and help with the tidying up.”

  Metcalf, who obviously considered the work beneath him, locked glares with Broomhall. Eventually he lowered his eyes, muttered, “Very well,” and, with a last venomous glance at Dan, turned away.

  “A bad-tempered cove,” Broomhall said. “But he has his uses…I will call for you at ten tomorrow evening, Bright.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  From the shop below, Dan heard the door open and Broomhall’s jaunty greeting, which was answered sharply by Mrs Chambers. Dan shrugged on his jacket, snuffed the candle and went downstairs, taking care not to make a noise. The girls had gone to bed and the parlour was empty. He could hear Mr Chambers in the kitchen, bolting the back door. Mrs Chambers and Broomhall were alone. Dan crept to the door from the parlour to the shop and quietly opened it an inch or so.

  Mrs Chambers stood at the counter, an open ledger in front of her. She was prevented from giving it any attention by Broomhall. He stood behind her, his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck.

  “I have to finish the day’s takings.”

  “But you promise you’ll come on Saturday evening?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “The same as I told him last time, that I’m visiting a friend. He never remembers.”

  Broomhall laughed. “It’s a wonder he recalls his own name.”

  “That’s enough. Whatever he’s lost, he’s sacrificed it in the cause of liberty. Your cause.”

  “Yes, of course, my cause,” Broomhall said placatingly. “I didn’t know you still cared about him.”

  “I don’t hate him. His was once the keenest mind in the movement. Thelwall, Godwin, Tooke – dolts compared to what he was. His ruin and imprisonment broke him, and we’ve got his King and Country to thank for that.”

  “I do like your passion.”

  There was a brief interval during which he expressed his admiration with kisses.

  She wrenched herself free. “I’ve got passions, and one of them’s a passion for the revenge you’ve promised me and all the people who have suffered under this corrupt ministry.”

  He watched her as she wrote an entry in the book. “How’s Bright getting on?”

  “He’s polite to Mr Chambers, kind to the girls. And he’s the first person I’ve seen Evelyn behave halfway civilly to for a long time.”

  “Do you want me to warn him off?”

  “I don’t think Evelyn’s in love with him. She’s too cold for that.”

  He laughed. “Not like mother, like daughter, then.”

  “Don’t think you can say what you like to me.”

  He held up his hands. “I don’t, I assure you!” He took out his watch. “Where is he? Can you go and call him?”

  Dan noisily turned the door handle and walked in. She snapped shut the book, locked the front door behind the men, pulled down the blinds and carried the lamp to the back room.

  At the Chequers there was a man on duty outside the courtyard door to turn back anyone who had no business with the United Patriots. After the disturbance to the last meeting, they were taking no risks. Metcalf and Simmons stood guard inside the skittles alley. They waved Broomhall and Dan through, Metcalf as usual eyeing Dan in no welcoming spirit.

  Before long there were about thirty men seated in front of Broomhall. The meeting started with Broomhall introducing Dan to the United Patriots. He was then made to swear an oath affirming that he undertook as a member of the Society of United Patriots to do his duty and defend the rights and liberties of the people, and free his country from tyranny, even at the cost of his life, and by force of arms if necessary, in obedience to the discipline and commands of the duly appointed officers of the United Patriots. And that he pledged himself to the cause and to his fellow Patriots, and he undertook to hold no communications concerning any business, actions, plans, and membership of the Society with anyone outside the Society.

  “And now to business,” Broomhall said. “At our last gathering here, some amongst you –” He paused and swept the room with his gaze until Upton and one or two others shifted uncomfortably. Having achieved this result, he resumed, “– expressed the wish that we should take untimely action likely to jeopardise our cause. Though I could not sympathise with your lack of discipline, I did sympathise with your zeal. Tonight, patriots, I can tell you that we have great news from our friends in Paris. They have despatched their agent and he will be with us within the next few days. All that remains to be done is to finalise arrangements with him.”

  There was an outbreak of cheering, hand shaking and congratulations. Broomhall raised his hand to silence the hubbub.

  “To that end, I need to know how far in a state of readiness we are. I will hear your reports. O’Brian.”

  Broomhall’s shop assistant stood up and announced in a voice that seemed to come from some deep, cold place where hope and enthusiasm had no existence, “We have five kegs of gunpowder.”

  “Not enough,” Broomhall said. “We will be setting off simultaneous explosions at key sites around the city. Lay in three times as much, at once.”

  “Does that include all the British bastilles?” called out Upton.

  “No, we’ll concentrate on opening Newgate,” Broomhall answered.

  “And the Old Bailey?” the little man persisted.

  “The exact details are yet to be determined, but if we do target the law courts I’ll make sure you’re on that detail. For now, can we get on? Simmons.”

  Simmons stood up, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bone handle. He pressed a hidden spring and a long, pointed blade shot out. “Our friends in Sheffield have promised to supply five thousand of these kooto secrets. See, the blade won’t sink back when it’s used. And you can’t open or close it until you know where the secret switch is.”

  He demonstrated the mechanism and passed the weapon around. For some moments there were clickings open and shut, murderous stabs at the air and murmurs of appreciation as the knife the French called the Couteau Secret made its way along the rows.

  “When will
they deliver?” asked Broomhall.

  “In a sennight.”

  “Good. Once we’ve lit the flames and people have taken to the streets, we must make sure we have plenty of weapons to hand round…How is the armed training progressing, Simmons?”

  “We’ve been drilling over Citizen Warren’s tea shop in Tooley Street this last month. Until the pikes arrive, we’re using mop handles.”

  Dan was hard pressed to suppress a guffaw at the image of the United Patriots marching up and down an attic with mops on their shoulders. He transformed it into a cough as Simmons continued, “I’ve also set up armed bands at Lambeth, Holborn and Tothill Fields, making an extra thirty men.”

  “Well done, all of you. Now listen carefully. We are at a critical point and there has never been a greater need for secrecy. For that reason, your unit and deployment will not be revealed to you until we are ready to launch our attack.”

  The men were disposed to start complaining at this lack of trust.

  “Patriots,” Broomhall said, “I promise I will tell you as soon as I can. There are many strands to draw together before all is ready. Suffice it to say that on the night we strike a blow for our nation’s freedom, you must be ready to go where you are sent and do as you are ordered. It will be vital that every man carries out the part allotted to him with all diligence and determination.”

  The meeting ended with the distribution of brandy and a toast to liberty.

  Simmons came up to Dan. “I’m putting you in the Southwark unit. Our next training session is tomorrow. Come to Warren’s at ten.”

  “To train with mop handles?”

  “Until we have the real thing,” Simmons snapped.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t be there. Only I wonder how useful it’s going to be.”

  “I wouldn’t start throwing your weight around so soon if I were you. It’s what Broomhall’s ordered.”

  Simmons moved away. Metcalf intercepted him. Simmons glanced back at Dan as he answered the other’s question. He’s reporting back on our conversation, Dan thought.