by Tim Jeal
Reaching the medieval pack-horse bridge, long since made redundant by the wide iron bridge half-a-mile upstream, Tom sat down on the parapet and waited for Magnus. Below him, from two open brick drains, the effluent from a bone-works and a tannery spewed out into the dark brown water, joining the discharge from a slaughter-house on the opposite side. A little further downstream, where the river skirted the parish burial ground, was a weir affording the funerary angels and saints a less than heavenly view of the bizarre variety of floating debris, as it plunged down a vertical curtain of water into the foaming maelstrom below: dead cats, discarded skins from the tannery, offal from tripe-houses, bones from the glue factory, and odd lengths of timber from the saw-mills.
Nauseated by the stench, Tom was relieved to see Magnus approaching a few minutes later, walking beside a massive broad-chested man whose muddy corduroy breeches and heavy tall lace-up boots suggested that he was a navvy, evidently brought along as their body-guard. A few paces behind came Moggs, the ink-stains on his smockfrock showing no signs of washing out in the rain.
‘Just the weather for Nomination Day, Mr Strickland,’ said Magnus by way of greeting. His hair was plastered down by the rain and his soaking paletot cape clung to his shoulders like a second skin. ‘I fear it’ll take an Indian monsoon to keep them so quiet on polling day.’
‘They seemed lively enough to me.’
Magnus noticed his disapproval and smiled easily.
‘Wait and see how cavalry enlivens them. Though I don’t deny they raised a fine chorus when Braithwaite’s band struck up. He could have spared himself the hire of so many trombones.’
Tom made no reply as Magnus led them onto the tow-path. Ahead, the river narrowed into a dark brick gorge where warehouses lined both banks; the wharves silent and deserted because of Nomination Day. Magnus glanced sideways at Tom as they walked.
‘Why so pensive, Mr Strickland? You mustn’t be so hard on a man for making light of grave matters. You’d be surprised how many soldiers before a battle seize on any trifling incident if it helps them laugh.’
Tom looked down at the mud and cinders on the path.
‘I’m no soldier as you know quite well.’
They went on in silence past heaps of merchandise, shapeless under sodden tarpaulins. Magnus said quietly:
‘If you regret coming, you’d best speak your mind.’
‘Regret coming?’ Tom returned sharply. ‘Did I need much persuading?’
‘No, that’s why your moodiness worries me. Unless we can act together – better not act at all.’
They had reached a coal-depot, where the canal joined the river. Tom kicked savagely at loose coals that had spilled onto the path from the huge mounds bordering it.
‘Secret meetings … payments of money, threats … power over others.’ He stopped and looked accusingly at Magnus. Moggs and the navvy walked on a few yards and leant against the walls of a lock-keeper’s hut. ‘Are we so different from Braithwaite? Or is it just to make things happen … a new drink? What was it you said?’ He paused and said in a lower voice: ‘I didn’t find that crowd this morning amusing….’
‘What did you find it?’
‘Frightening … sad … I can’t tell you.’
‘Then tell me this,’ said Magnus urgently, ‘if a man has a gun, must I fight him with my bare fists to prove my superior virtue? If you don’t like my way, go back.’
Tom’s dark eyes flashed with anger. Magnus often thought Strickland, with his gentle voice and sensitive high-cheekboned face, too tranquil and bloodless to oppose him, but, for all his aesthetic pallor, the man had spirit too.
‘Me go back? Are we not here because I suggested you should pay a fine?’
Magnus looked away towards the lock gates, where a constant cascade of water foamed through the sluices.
‘Then why are we arguing?’ he murmured. ‘I need your support.’
‘If this is personal vengeance against one man, then I will go back.’
‘What do we gain if we succeed?’ cried Magnus. ‘Praise, wealth, gratitude? Nothing, except how we stand in our own eyes. Forget my reasons. If you value honour, obligation, call it what you will, don’t look to others for a code; only look to yourself, and do as you wish to be.’
Tom met his eyes and smiled.
‘Thank you. I know all I need to.’
A few minutes later they had left the warehouses behind and were following the river through open meadows. Ben Craske, the navvy, told them of occasions when he had come here as a boy to watch bull-baiting and dog-fights. After half-a-mile Magnus, having satisfied himself that they had not been followed, led them across a deserted tile-yard back in the direction of the town.
The glass factory, where the meeting was to take place, was near the centre of a complex of industrial buildings dominated by the intricate and ornate ironwork frames of the town’s largest gas-holders and the chimneys of the coking furnaces. The cobbled street, leading past the gas-works to the glass factory and neighbouring timber yard, was narrow and flanked by smoke-blackened windowless walls. Tom was trying to imagine how Magnus would conduct the meeting, when, ahead of them, he saw a cart piled high with sacks of coal, blocking the entrance to the gas-works. He noticed too that Magnus hesitated for a moment, before walking on at the same pace. After all there was nothing to be suspicious of, there would be sure to be dozens of coal deliveries to the gas-works every day. They were now only minutes from the glass factory. Because of Crawford’s momentary indecision, Craske reached the cart first, strode on a few paces more and saw, less than fifty yards away, a dozen men leaning casually against the wall. By the time he had also caught sight of the daunting array of sticks and clubs in their hands, the rest of the party had passed the cart too. Magnus yelled to everyone to run, but, as they spun round, four men came out from the entrance to the gas-works and blocked the narrow gaps on each side of the cart. Only Moggs moved, darting forwards under the cart and running.
Tom realised with a paralysing sense of shock that the men they had agreed to meet had almost beyond doubt been instructed by Braithwaite to lead into a trap whoever came to treat with them; their openness to bribery had never been more than a pretence. As this came to him, Tom caught a glimpse of Crawford’s eyes turned on him with such hatred that he knew at once that Magnus was sure that he had betrayed him. But there was no time to deny anything, since by now the dozen men were advancing, intent on forcing them back onto the cart, so they could be attacked from both sides. Ignoring Tom, Magnus grabbed Craske’s arm.
‘Split up. Take the cart, I’ll try the entrance.’
The men were now barely twenty yards away. Tom’s heart pounded as he registered details in dream-like isolation: an unshaven face, a pair of heavy boots, a greasy seamless surtout. Craske pulled out a life-preserver and Magnus a loaded crop before they began to sprint towards the cart. Tom turned to follow them and heard the men behind break into a run.
Craske reached the cart a second or so before Crawford and landed a brutal kick on the horse’s flank. As the terrified animal bolted with the cart, Tom only just flung himself clear in time. A wheel caught one of their pursuers and dashed him against the wall as the cart went over with a thunderous crash scattering coal across the street. Craske struck down one of the men standing in his path and ran on. Hearing the ringing clash of nailed boots on the cobbles behind him, Tom went on running, but without hope. Just in front of him, Crawford swerved sharply into the entrance to the gas-works. Reckoning that his best chance of escape would be to continue straight ahead, where Craske had already demoralised those opposing him, Tom knew instantly that he would follow Crawford instead. In no other way would he ever convince him that he had not been his betrayer.
As Tom entered the long covered way, which ran under the purifying rooms, into the inner courtyard of the gas-works, the sight of the square of light at the far end gave him fresh heart. The staff in the management offices would give them refuge. Magnus had almost reache
d the courtyard when Tom saw him stop dead. Two thickset men had stepped out of the shadows at the side of the tunnel and were starkly silhouetted against the light. Tom halted too, his head swimming, fear churning in his stomach. Successive waves of panic left him breathless and trembling. Behind, they were cut off; ahead, how many men besides these two were waiting? One blow with a club across the face could melt the mouth into a liquid mess of raw flesh and broken teeth, another smash the cartilage of a nose to pulp … just two blows.
Magnus made no move towards his opponents, but, tearing off his cape and holding it in one hand, stood waiting in the centre of the covered way. Tom heard the boots of the two men echoing loudly as they advanced. Occasionally drops of water fell from the brick arch above his head, hitting the granite setts with a loud plopping noise. Wanting to run to help Crawford, Tom found his legs would not carry him. One of the men was swinging a length of chain, the other holding a thick knobstick. Suddenly, without knowing how, Tom was running forwards, as if wading through flowing water. Before he had covered half the distance the man with the knobstick hurled himself at Magnus, who flung his cape in his face, dodged and then ran at the man with the chain. Tom saw the dull blue gleam of the descending metal and Magnus’s upraised arm shielding his face. Before his assailant could swing again, Magnus wrenched at the chain, catching him off balance, and, as he staggered, brought down the weighted end of his crop on the side of his head. The man thudded against the wall and slipped to the ground, his head knocking against the brickwork. Tom yelled a warning as the other thug leapt at Magnus from behind. They went down together, rolling and punching. Tom caught up the chain from the ground, looped it and struck, catching Magnus’s attacker at the base of the neck. As, the man released his grasp round Crawford’s neck, Magnus swung his knee hard into his stomach, leaving the man thrashing on the ground, fighting for breath. Hearing footsteps and shouting from the end of the tunnel, Tom and Magnus fled towards the light.
In front of them in the centre of the courtyard were the offices and counting houses. Magnus wrenched at a door handle but it was locked, and Tom was no luckier with the next. All the managers and clerks would be off for Nomination Day. They turned and ran round the back of these buildings, only to find themselves in a long narrow roofless coal store with no way out. The shouts were coming closer. A vast heap of coal was piled against the blank wall at the end of the cul-de-sac. From the top it might just be possible to reach the guttering of the lean-to at the back of the office buildings. Tom tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry; he was sweating but had trouble stopping his teeth chattering.
‘Come on,’ roared Magnus, running at the coal, but slipping back. He dropped his crop, and with the help of his hands, began to climb. Tom clawed his way up after him, choking as he breathed in the thick coal dust. Looking up, he saw Magnus at the top trying to pull himself up onto the roof by the guttering, but his hand had evidently been hurt in the fight and he could not hold on.
‘Wait,’ yelled Tom, clambering to the top and linking his hands to give Magnus a foothold. With this additional height, Magnus got his chest against the guttering and managed to haul himself up onto the roof. Leaning down he gave Tom his uninjured hand and pulled him up. Both were shaking and breathing in painful gasps. Tom saw that the chain had dragged away the cloth from Magnus’s left sleeve, lacerating his wrist which was bleeding freely.
‘Believe in miracles?’ groaned Magnus, glancing skywards. Tom shook his head. ‘A pity.’
Moments later Magnus was loosening tiles with his heel and was soon sending them slicing downwards towards the men mounting the coal below them. Tom reached the crown of the roof on his hands and knees, and, steadying himself against a chimney-stack, noticed a heavy metal cowl above one of the pots. He tore at it with all his might, nearly falling as the cowl came away. Below him he saw Magnus kick off the first man to try to get onto the roof, sending him sprawling backwards, but others were climbing up further along. Tom pitched the cowl at one of them, catching him on the thigh and hurling him back onto the coal, taking the man behind with him.
Magnus had slithered down the far side of the roof, loosing an avalanche of slates, which were still clattering down into the yard when Tom caught up with him. Magnus found a drain-pipe and swinging himself out began to slide down; Tom followed, tearing the palms of his hands and bruising his knees against the joints in the piping. From the roof, Magnus had thought that the way to the entrance was clear, but, as Tom reached the ground, he saw their way cut off by three more men. Braithwaite had all too clearly paid a large sum to have those who had had the temerity to defy him severely chastised. Magnus looked helplessly at Tom’s trusting and still hopeful face, and the thought of what probably lay ahead for both of them made his legs weaken. He was responsible for having got him into his present situation, and could think of no way out for either of them. Without the man’s help, he would already have been beaten insensible. While he hesitated, Magnus felt a sharp punch between the shoulder blades; looking up, he saw that they had been followed over the roof, where several men were about to throw more slates. He pulled Tom back under the eaves and whispered urgently:
‘Swear to me if you get out … if you can get out on your own feet, that you won’t wait for me. Just go. Leave the town. Don’t try to see me. Go. Braithwaite mustn’t …’. He stopped as a dull clanging noise came from the pipe. Within seconds the first men would be down. They ran towards a narrow opening and soon emerged in a smaller yard, flanked on one side by two massive gas-holders and smaller cisterns filled with tar and ammonia. Opposite was the door to the retort house, lit by the red glow of the furnaces within. As they ran exhausted towards it, both sensing that they would find help there, the men behind were gaining ground.
The tall metal chamber they entered was lit only by the incandescent glow of the open furnaces. At the far end was a group of all but naked men, working under an overlooker, raking out white-hot coke from the retorts, while others were dragging a metal cart filled with fresh coal across to the furnaces. Magnus shouted to attract their attention, but his words were drowned by the thunder of the furnaces as the new coal was run in. The overlooker tipped water onto the used coke to cool it, causing a deafening hissing noise and filling the chamber with dense steam. Unused to the red flickering light and now half-blinded with steam, they stumbled forwards. Without warning, Tom’s foot came up hard against the rails on which the iron carts ran, and he fell. He saw Magnus bend down to help him; then, catching a movement just to his left, he shouted a warning and the next second saw an explosion of white light in front of his face. Gas, he remembered thinking, as he fainted. He came to almost at once to see Magnus grappling with two dark shapes. Tom crawled to his knees, realising with agonising lucidity that they had been overtaken in the darkness; the splintering pain behind his forehead, where he had been hit, made him reel as he stood up. He saw Crawford catch one of his attackers in the face with a well-aimed punch, and then double-up as a club hammered into his ribs. As Magnus staggered back, Tom watched him crumple under a savage glancing stroke, which caught him on the side of the face and thudded into his shoulder. Tom lurched forwards and tried to shout, but no sound came. Fear like an ice-cold knife bit into his entrails. Whatever their original instructions, these men now seemed bent on killing them. He blundered against the man who had felled Magnus and was sent crashing backwards by a kick in the stomach. Nothing mattered now, only air, air. His eyes seemed bursting from their sockets, his flesh crawling; until, at last, he gulped in air, which he could not breathe out. Hours it seemed before the choking gasping fight was over and the rhythm of his breathing was restored.
At last, as if through the wrong end of a telescope, Tom saw the overlooker leave the furnaces and start running in his direction; only now with the furnace doors clanged shut, had he heard anything from the far end of the chamber. Soon men were fighting all around him; the furnace-men as large-limbed and powerful as the hired thugs. Tom raised himself to his kn
ees, and, after an initial spasm of giddiness, realised that he was not going to faint. As he stood, the hammering pain in his head made him want to scream, but when he caught sight of a group of men bending anxiously over Magnus’s inert body, his terror overcame even this pain. Moments later he was overjoyed to see Crawford move his head. He knelt beside him and squeezed his hand, but though he spoke his name several times, he could not get him to open his eyes. The light was too bad to see well, but Tom could tell that he was breathing easily. He had been covered with sacking, and one of the furnace-men was trying to make him drink from a chipped cup. Blood was oozing from a gash that extended from his hair-line to his chin. Remembering the man’s composure and confidence, Tom wanted to weep; instead he turned and walked towards the doorway. He could do nothing to help him. Sickened, stunned, bewildered, he walked out into the cold air of the yard, thankful to be away from the brutal struggle in the retort-house.
He sank down on some sacks of coal and cradled his throbbing head in his arms, knowing as he did so that his peace would be short-lived. It would not be long before the furnace-men overcame the four or five hired men … and then? Helpers arriving, summoned by Moggs, constables with them? Tom tried to visualise it. Charges … they would ask him what charges he wished to bring. A string of endless questions: why had he been there, why had he been attacked and by whom? Who had been with him? Magnus’s vehement plea came back to him: to go if he should have the chance, regardless of whether he should be alone. But could he really have meant him to go, even after the danger had passed? Dazed with shock, his head still hurting badly, Tom tried to think. Had Magnus merely been concerned for him, in case Braithwaite discovered his treachery? Or had he had quite different reasons of his own for not wanting it known who had been with him when he had been attacked? Confused, and scared that he might make the wrong decision, Tom walked slowly across the yard, towards the iron framework of the gas-holders. If he stayed and identified himself, might not Braithwaite in some way be able to use his presence to establish what Magnus had intended to do, and so implicate the Liberal in bribery? But already, Tom knew that he did not care enough to think any more. Even if he did stay, he would achieve little. Better to do what Magnus had asked, and go.
