‘His mob is a different kettle of fish altogether. They might be a ragbag mixture of types but at least they’ve got some balls. They talk a good game but they’re interested in the ordinary man, too.’ Godfrey hesitated, his expression clouding over. ‘In the current climate, I’d say that any association with Jackman and his lot is not going to be conducive to Emily’s good health, though.’
Pyke felt the skin tighten across his cheek. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ At that moment, his view of Emily and Jackman was obscured by someone sitting a few rows ahead of him.
‘As far as I’ve heard, there’s going to be a big clampdown on radical activity,’ Godfrey whispered, ‘and when it comes, the authorities won’t concern themselves with someone’s rank or station.’
‘And has this information come from someone inside the government?’ he asked, thinking about Peel’s interest in Jackman.
‘They’re willing to tolerate the unions up to a point. But what they do not want is every Tom, Dick and Harry joining these organisations. Look around you, Pyke. Folk are rightfully angry. Reform hasn’t changed a damned thing and they’re disillusioned. That’s why this figure Captain Paine has become something of a hero to them.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Who, Captain Paine?’
Pyke nodded.
‘No more than anyone else.’
On the platform Munroe was starting to build towards a conclusion but there were already rumblings of discontent from the floor.
‘Do you think he’s flesh and blood?’
‘You mean, do I think he’s one man rather than an amalgam of people using the same name?’
‘That’s part of it,’ Pyke whispered. ‘But I was also wondering whether you’d heard the rumour that Jackman is Captain Paine?’
‘Who did you hear that from?’ The way Godfrey said it showed he was prepared to entertain the possibility.
Pyke ignored the question.
‘Look, Pyke, whether Captain Paine is a fiction or not, he’s someone the poor can cheer for. They see someone who acts rather than postulates. That’s what makes him such a threat.’ Godfrey hesitated, perhaps deciding whether to say what was on his mind. ‘But there was something else . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘This chap Jackman is rumoured to be something of a ladies’ man. Apparently he’s hung like a donkey.’
Pyke turned to his uncle. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
Up on the platform Munroe was winding up his speech with an attack on vulgarity and drunkenness. ‘Let us put into practice our democratic principles,’ he shouted, his eyes fixed on something over their heads, ‘by seeking the company of sober-minded, virtuous individuals.’ Unsurprisingly, given that most of the people were drinking ale provided by the owner, this drew the first outward signs of dissent. Someone shouted, ‘Give the man a drink,’ and then added, ‘Sit down, you old windbag.’ This got the most raucous cheer of the evening. Then someone began chanting ‘Captain Paine’ and others followed, and soon everyone in the room had joined in, the chanting easily drowning out the end of Munroe’s speech.
Someone jostled them from behind and at first Pyke put it down to an expression of high spirits. He heard some further mutterings and then someone threw some beer over the back of Godfrey’s coat. Laughter ensued and it was only then Pyke realised they were being targeted because of their clothing: because someone had decided they didn’t belong in such a gathering on account of Godfrey’s blue double-breasted jacket and Pyke’s knee-length cutaway coat.
Emily had climbed back on to the platform, together with Julian Jackman. Emily waited for the room to quieten before she said, in a deep, confident voice that surprised Pyke, ‘And that’s why you shouldn’t allow us respectable, bourgeois types anywhere near these meetings.’
It was a direct rebuke to Munroe and it got the biggest cheer of the night.
Next to her, Jackman applauded her comments and commended Captain Paine to the mob.
‘Death to the tyrant Whigs. Pestilence on the villainous Tories.’ Jackman stepped to the front of the platform. ‘Let the swinish multitude rise up and kick our fat masters in the teeth. Cut off their heads and stick them on pikes. What we need is revolution. While we’re at it, let’s throw Bentham and Malthus on the bonfire too. We should be striving for the betterment of the working man and only the working man: the middle classes can take care of themselves as they always have done.’
Those packed into the fetid room rose to their feet to hail his words, throwing their caps into the air.
Turning round, Pyke found himself staring at a fat, whiskered man of about forty wearing a monkey jacket that was too small for him and a stocking-cap pulled down over his forehead. ‘Look at me again, cully,’ he sneered, ‘and I’ll smite your costard.’ He was cross eyed from drink. ‘What are two rum culls like you doing mixing with the riff-raff? Didn’t you hear the man? You ain’t wanted.’
There were many ways in which Pyke could have answered the question, not least pointing to the fine work his uncle did riling the authorities with his unstamped paper the Scourge, but none of them seemed appropriate. So when the man started to pour the rest of his beer over Godfrey’s head, Pyke snatched the bottle from his hand and, in the same movement, smashed it against his jaw, the bottle shattering into hundreds of tiny shards. The ruffian fell backwards into the crowd sitting behind him but someone else, obviously a friend of the injured man, came at Pyke with a knife. Pyke caught him by his lunging wrist and jerked it sharply down, the bone breaking with a clean, satisfying snap. The knife clattered harmlessly on to the floor and the assailant roared with agony, the veins in his neck swollen from the pain. Others might have waded into the dispute as well if someone hadn’t fired a pistol up at the ceiling. The loudness of the blast brought the room to order, and when Pyke looked up, he saw his wife standing next to Jackman on the platform with a pistol in her hand, the acrid smell of blast powder filling the room. Stepping off the platform, Emily made her way through the mob, the men hurriedly clearing a path for her. Maybe she had already seen what had happened or perhaps she suspected that Pyke may have been involved in the rumpus because when she came upon them, surrounded by a mob spoiling for a fight, Emily’s expression didn’t noticeably change.
‘You,’ Emily barked, pointing the pistol at Pyke, and added, without changing her tone, ‘You, too, old man.’
Once Emily had marched them out of the room at gunpoint, and they were out of sight and earshot of the crowd, she turned to Jackman and said, ‘I’d like to introduce my husband, Pyke, and his uncle Godfrey.’ She handed the pistol back to Jackman and added, ‘Pyke, Godfrey, this is Julian Jackman.’
Jackman was a tall, slender, good-looking man with a trimmed beard, pouting lips and bright rosy cheeks. He asked Pyke whether he had found the meeting interesting.
‘Illuminating might be a better description,’ Pyke said.
‘Oh?’
‘See, I’m always intrigued by those who believe they can change the world with the might of their own rhetoric.’
‘Do I detect a subtle rebuke in your words?’
Emily interrupted. ‘Pyke thinks the current dispensation will carry on regardless of what we might or might not do.’
‘Is that so?’
Pyke looked first at Emily and then at Jackman. It had been a while since she had challenged him in front of others and it told him that things between them had slipped more than he had perhaps imagined.
Interrupting them, Godfrey made his excuses and hurried out of the door, saying he needed to find somewhere to relieve himself.
‘It’s not all rhetoric,’ Jackman said. ‘We’re currently attempting to unionise the coal-whippers and we have our sights set on other labouring men, too. In this context, our aims are less ambitious. Higher wages, shorter working hours. Straightforward issues that can make a difference to men’s lives.’
Pyke noticed that Emily was nodding her head in approv
al, and wondered whether the radical might be attracted to his wife. Men usually were, Pyke thought grimly, but the attraction was not usually mutual.
‘But if your wife is to be believed, you’re suggesting even to strive for change is a futile yearning. Would that be a fair assessment of your position?’
‘Man is a solitary animal.’ Pyke shrugged, not really wanting to discuss the matter. ‘It’s in his nature to look after his own and his family’s interests first.’
‘And woman?’ Jackman asked, almost mocking. He glanced across at Emily, who blushed, and Pyke had to rein in an urge to tear out his throat.
‘In spite of your rhetoric about working-class solidarity and the evils of money, I think we both know what role my wife is performing here.’
Emily’s face reddened. ‘I don’t think . . .’
But Jackman cut her off with a laugh. ‘You’re correct, of course. We can’t do all we need to do without some charitable assistance.’ He nodded approvingly at Emily. ‘But a few months ago, your wife stood up to a crew of mercenaries down at Cowgate wharf. They’d been sent there by the coal merchants to beat the coal-whippers into submission. A hundred and twenty-three men had just sworn their oaths and a strike had been called. Your wife was wearing a white dress, I recall. She pushed her way to the front of the mob and none of the hired ruffians knew what to do. No one dared attack. They left with their tails between their legs.’
Pyke nodded while Jackman told him the story, to suggest he’d already heard it, but inwardly felt aggrieved that Emily hadn’t mentioned it. ‘I don’t need a lecture about my wife’s courage.’
That seemed to chasten him slightly. ‘Of course.’ Crimson faced, Jackman stared down at his shoes.
A silence hung between them. Emily glanced from Pyke to Jackman, a quizzical look on her face. ‘Why were they chanting Captain Paine’s name?’ Pyke asked, in the end.
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.’
Pyke clenched his teeth. ‘They’re not here. You are.’
‘You strike me as an educated man, Pyke. I’m sure you’ve read about the exploits of Odysseus and Jason. In troubled times, people look to heroes to do what they can’t.’
‘And that’s what Captain Paine is? A mythical creation intended to give working people false hope?’
‘Why would people’s hopes be false?’ Emily asked, stepping into the argument on Jackman’s side.
‘A lone individual bringing the capitalist order to its knees?’ Pyke shook his head. ‘That doesn’t sound like a fantasy to you?’
‘I think you’re missing the point,’ Emily said. Jackman was just looking at them, amused.
‘And what is the point?’
Emily shrugged. ‘That an individualist system where man looks out only for his interests has produced a world of such inequalities it cannot be sustained in perpetuity.’
Feeling uneasy about airing their differences in public, Pyke turned to the radical and said, ‘I’d like you better if I felt you thought politics was the clash of opposing forces rather than some war of ideals.’
‘But it’s exactly what I do believe, that capital and labour are implacable enemies, fighting to the death.’
‘Then the problem is that you infect others with your naive optimism so that they begin to see the world not as it really is but as you’d like it to be.’
Jackman seemed angry. ‘Thank you, sir, but I can see the world well enough as it is. Men, women and children, sweating in hovels and factories to earn less in a year than we might spend on dinner while the wealthy grow fat on the proceeds of their labour.’ He shrugged. ‘But I hope it won’t always be this way.’
‘That’s exactly my point.’ Pyke paused. ‘Because if the world’s as threatening as you admit it is, self-assertion is the only thing that will keep you alive.’
‘But self-assertion and self-interest are different things entirely, Pyke,’ Emily said, glancing nervously at Jackman.
Too late, Pyke realised that he’d become involved in an argument he couldn’t win. ‘Where I grew up, men and women had to fight tooth and nail for what they needed just to make it through the day.’
‘But does it always have to be so?’ Jackman’s expression softened a little.
For a moment Pyke was lost for an answer. Emily stared at him, either willing him to say something or to remain silent.
‘And what happens when men and women can’t compete fairly in this struggle for survival because the authorities have stacked the deck so heavily in favour of the rich?’ Jackman looked at him for an answer.
Pyke felt the skin tighten across his face. ‘But the fact remains that in the struggle to put food on your table and clothes on your children’s backs, it’s down to you, and you alone. No one’s going to offer you a helping hand.’
Jackman looked at him, almost pityingly, and said, ‘In your world, perhaps, Pyke. In your world.’
It wasn’t until later, as they prepared for bed on the top floor of the Islington town house Emily had also inherited from her father, that Emily and Pyke got around to talking about the events of the evening.
‘I have to go to Cambridge tomorrow for business. I’ll probably be away for a few nights.’ He looked around the bedroom, embarrassed by its untidiness, piles of old clothes strewn across the floor. It was cold as well, the fire smouldering in the grate doing little to warm up the room.
‘I’m planning to spend a couple of days at Hambledon,’ Emily replied. ‘It feels like weeks since I last spent any proper time with Felix.’
It had been Pyke’s choice not to employ any domestic servants, and while the lack of warmth and tidiness didn’t bother him when he stayed there on his own, he felt a little uncomfortable in Emily’s presence. Not that she appeared to mind about the cold. She sat in her nightdress at the dressing table, brushing her hair in front of the looking glass. ‘You know, there was a time when I might have been impressed by the sentiments you expressed tonight.’
‘But now you’re perfectly happy to take someone like Jackman’s side over mine?’ It was a more intemperate remark than Pyke had intended, but he was still rankled by his exchange with the radical.
‘It’s not a question of taking anyone’s side.’
‘What is it a question of, then?’
‘You think I’m disloyal?’ She laughed angrily. ‘I told you before we married that I wouldn’t be the kind of wife who’d slavishly attend to your every whim.’ She shook her head, her anger ebbing away into disappointment.
‘But you think it’s all right that I’m compelled to watch as you hang off Captain Paine’s every word?’
‘Captain Paine?’ She threw her chin up into the air. ‘Whoever said that Julian was Captain Paine?’
‘Well, isn’t he?’
‘Whether he is or isn’t is not the point.’ She stood up and hurried across the room to the bed. ‘Anyway, why are you so interested in this Captain Paine all of a sudden?’
Pyke knelt down in front of the fire he’d tried to start and prodded it with a poker.
‘Times have changed. Your ability to turn self-interest into a virtue is no longer as convincing as it was when you were poor.’
‘And now I have a little money in my pocket, am I supposed to become a different person? More like you, perhaps?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Emily sat up in the bed and stared at him, visibly angry now.
‘It’s easy for you to dismiss the importance of money because you’ve never been without it.’
That silenced her for a few moments. ‘Once upon a time,’ she started, ‘you used to steal from men like my father.’
‘And now I’ve turned into him? Is that what you mean?’ This time it was his turn to show his irritation.
‘You needn’t worry about that,’ Emily said, laughing. ‘You’ll never be my father.’
‘But?’
‘But you once had aspirations beyond merely wanting to be rich.’
‘For y
ou, money has always been a means to an end.’ Pyke looked at her, shaking his head. ‘Why don’t you think the same applies to me?’
‘It does. I know.’ Emily sank back into her pillow, sighing. ‘But what if those who most need your help are no longer those closest to you?’
Pyke left the fire alone and perched on the side of the bed, starting to take off his boots. ‘There are always going to be people who need your help. Where do you draw the line?’
‘For me, there isn’t any line.’
He kicked off his boots and started to unbutton his shirt. ‘In which case people will always take advantage of you.’
‘So?’
‘So what if someone like Jackman is just using you for your money?’
Emily pulled the blanket up around her body and watched him undress for a short while. ‘It isn’t about him or me, or even you. It’s about something bigger, Pyke. Haven’t you grasped that by now?’
Pyke finished undressing in silence and joined Emily under the sheets. ‘I thought you handled that pistol quite well,’ he said, quietly.
‘Only quite well?’
‘For a moment I thought you were going to shoot me.’
‘I could have put one straight through your heart,’ she said, playfully tapping his chest.
‘You wouldn’t have found it there.’
In the glow of the candle, he saw the faint trace of a smile on her face. ‘It’s bigger than you give it credit for.’
‘A heart of gold, eh?’
She gave him a playful frown.
‘Copper, then.’
‘Brass.’ Emily kissed him gently on the mouth. ‘It’s harder to shoot a hole in brass than copper.’
‘So now I’m just a suit of armour to you?’
‘Not just that.’ She reached down and touched him.
‘It would seem I’ve got a reputation to live up to.’
‘Or down to.’
He began to laugh. ‘Her ladyship would deign to have her way with a commoner then?’
‘Is that what you are? A commoner?’
‘A commoner, with very immediate needs.’ Pyke straddled her and started to pull up her nightshirt.
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 7
