Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘And how many benefactors do you have?’ John asked.

  ‘So far it’s only James,’ Sean said, the laughter lines around his eyes deep etched and a broad grin on his face. ‘But I’m very hopeful that God will help us.’

  ‘Well you can add me to your list,’ John said. ‘I did little enough to make this money, so I will match James’ thirty pounds for the fighting fund and give ten pounds for your Friendly Society. At least I will know then that you will be less likely to try and save my soul.’

  John and James turned to look at Charlie, who was busy re-counting his share. ‘You are part of our enterprise too, Charlie,’ James said ‘but of course we cannot ask you to contribute.’

  ‘And neither will I,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m no Robin Hood.’

  ‘No one would ever think it,’ John said, ‘but I can think of at least one lady of our acquaintance who admires a man who gives to the poor, and helps his friends.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Hawker,’ James said with a broad grin. ‘You are correct. Mrs Hawker has always admired generosity in a man, and of course if the fight goes well there may be more booty to come.’

  ‘I’ll not be forced into giving,’ Charlie said, ‘but if there are those whose needs are greater than mine, I suppose we must pull together. I’ll put thirty in the fighting fund, providing I gets a share of any booty to come, and providing I can take out what it’s cost me in train fares and food and all the rest.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ James said, ‘the least you can do is to match John’s contribution.’

  Charlie scowled and stared at Sean. ‘Very well, the priest can have ten pounds, but it’s agin my principles helping Catholics.’

  ‘We note your principles, Charlie, but now we have money we can begin the campaign,’ James said.

  ‘What is this “fighting fund”?’ Sean asked.

  ‘We need to hire some men to even up the odds. Have you considered what I proposed?’ Sean looked concerned, but James pressed on. ‘I need good men, bright, and young, and handy in a fight, but we don’t want loose cannons.’

  ‘It still concerns me,’ Sean said.

  ‘You have my word that I’ll not put their lives at risk,’ James said. ‘And we would be hitting back at Caine. Please trust me,’ he said. ‘You help choose them. Make sure they’re sensible. Take thirty pounds with you for paying them and we will keep the rest here. When you need more money ask Charlie, he will be our quartermaster.

  ‘Very well,’ Sean said.

  James grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously before turning to John. ‘Perhaps you can check over the men when Sean has chosen them and tell them what they need to do.’

  ‘I’d be glad to be doing something,’ John said. ‘But what will we do?’

  James did not want to admit that he had no real plan as yet. ‘Go down to Avon Street for a few days and get the lie of the land first, John. Gather information and then we’ll plan the next step.’

  John grinned, as though he savoured the idea, relished the thought of action. ‘I’ll pack some things now and get down there, do some scouting around. I’ll lodge there a few days. Perhaps you can meet me in The Pig and Whistle tomorrow, Charlie, at noon? Then I’ll come and see you, Sean, and meet the new recruits.’

  James momentarily felt a loss of control. Charlie and John were both going their own ways, taking the initiative. It was not a bad thing in itself but he knew the fight against Caine was a war, not a battle. It needed to be planned and controlled. They were outnumbered and if they were divided they would be beaten. Someone had to be in control, and since it was his fight he must take responsibility.

  ‘Sean!’ James said. The priest turned to him and the others stopped talking. The strength of his exclamation took even him by surprise. ‘When Caine sends his men out collecting debts, how many are there?’

  ‘If it’s to a business, there may be three, or four, or even more of them. If they’re collecting small debts it’s generally one, or maybe two.’

  ‘Then that is where we begin the campaign,’ James replied. ‘When you have the men, organise them, John, and take back what Caine’s men have collected. Take no risks. Pick out the ones who are most vulnerable and never tackle them unless you outnumber them.’ He hesitated. ‘You must ensure that none of you are ever recognised, and there must be no killing.’

  ‘You should be able to do that easy enough,’ Charlie said. ‘They spread themselves thin sometimes, but Caine will soon be wise to it. He’ll soon be on guard and send out more men.’

  ‘That’s precisely the effect we want,’ James said. ‘Our actions will make him uneasy. The moment he responds, we stop the attacks, but by then he will be wondering if he has opposition in Avon Street, and he’ll be distracted from other things. All it needs is a couple of days, a couple of attacks.’

  ‘You need to get them at the end of the day when they’ve plenty of money with them,’ Charlie said.

  ‘No!’ James exclaimed. ‘That’s when they’ll be on guard. Take them when they least suspect. It is not the money we are interested in, it’s the disruption.’ John and Charlie nodded their understanding. James looked around the room, at each of the men individually, knowing that they were about to embark on a course of action where the only certainty was risk. ‘Good luck, gentleman.’ He smiled, hoping that it would convey a sense of optimism. ‘I sincerely thank you for your friendship and trust and support. Now I need to get back to my locks and Charlie needs to tell Mrs Hawker about his generosity.’

  The humour was forced. The gratitude was genuine, and matched only in intensity by the guilt he felt at hiding from his pursuers while others took risks on his behalf.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  When John and Charlie left, Sean showed no sign of moving. It was plain that he had something on his mind. ‘I have some news regarding Thomas Hunt’s family. I have found two families willing to take on his children, and now I have the money to pay for their upkeep. They will still be separated, but they will at least be out of the workhouse.’

  ‘That’s good news indeed,’ James said, ‘but what of his wife?’

  ‘Imelda is stronger and she at least recognises me now, but it will be some time before she is well enough to care for her own children. She asks how they are, but she still doesn’t want to see them. I’ve also learnt that she has family in Ireland.’

  ‘Could the children not go to her family?’ James asked.

  ‘Oh, if only it were that simple. They are farmers, but they were evicted from their tenancy. I have people trying to track them down, but they might have emigrated or died, for all that’s known of them.’ Sean hesitated. ‘You could still go to Ireland.’

  ‘It’s gone too far now,’ James replied. ‘I have a responsibility to provide some ending to what I have started. Caine has put himself above the law and above justice. He must be opposed. Besides there are people in my life now that I care a great deal about.’

  ‘Then sure it must be God’s will,’ Sean said. ‘He has brought those people into your life, the people you need to guide and help you.’

  ‘So you believe this is my destiny?’ James asked dismissively.

  ‘Destiny implies you have no free will,’ Sean replied. ‘I only mean that when you need help, sometimes it comes in unexpected ways.’ He paused. ‘Do you think all this has happened by chance?’

  ‘Charlie owed me money and John happened to be there, the night I was attacked,’ James replied. ‘Yes, I believe it was chance. No more lectures, Sean, please.’

  ‘Sometimes the meaning in our lives is lost in what happens from day to day,’ Sean said, ignoring the plea. ‘Perhaps we’re only meant to understand it at the end, or perhaps when something shakes us from our complacency? I’ve enough trouble understanding the mind of man, let alone the mind of God.’

  ‘Is it wrong to fight Caine?’ James asked.

  Sean remained silent for a while. ‘He is hurting a great many people and needs to be stopped. But whether you can t
ake him on without becoming like him and putting your own soul in peril I do not know.’

  ‘I’ve had a great deal of time to think in the last few days,’ James replied.

  ‘And I see its effect already,’ Sean said. ‘I see signs of the old James Daunton again.’

  ‘You mean the James Daunton who is terrified for his life and doesn’t know what to do.’

  ‘You seem to know what to do,’ Sean said, ‘and I believe that you’re not just fighting for your own life.’

  ‘You’re determined to see the best in me, Sean.’

  ‘You are what binds us,’ Sean replied. ‘Who knows what we might achieve together.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  John packed the canvas bag with a few clothes and set off. It was easy to lose himself in the crowds once he reached Walcot Street. He felt almost as he did on the day he left his parents’ house in Boston. At last he had only himself to worry about again; he was free and the noise and bustle around him were like music after the confining stillness of the house.

  Walcot Street was where all the London traffic came and went; the busy main entrance to Bath. The street was vibrant with life; taverns, inns and ale houses, stables and shops, and so much traffic. But as John crossed the road it felt almost as though he was entering another world, a world where death and not life, was the master. The sound of the traffic seemed suddenly drowned in the bellowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep. The stockyards, slaughterhouses and Beast Market stood cheek to jowl here, building after building, each backing onto the steep slope down to the river, each full of the stink of death.

  As he drew closer, he saw the ragged children in the alleyways between the buildings, picking at unattended carcasses and the piles of bones, in search of a meal. He found himself imagining the streams of blood and offal running down to the River Avon beyond. Out of sight, below, by the river, he knew that other children, the ‘mud larks’, would be scouring the riverbanks in search of what could be used or sold, up to their waists in the oozing rich-red river mud, their nostrils full of the stench of sewer outflows. So it had been, in every port he’d visited and every stretch of navigable river in every city he had seen.

  It was a relief when he reached the High Street. Here the stalls of the butter market spilt over to meet those of the fish market. The costermongers’ barrows littered the street and they shouted their prices and extolled the quality of their merchandise, as customers haggled and criticised the quality of their offerings. Seagulls wheeled overhead, shrieking noisily, darting white wings in the winter sun, swooping down to fight over some occasional discarded fish guts, or an unattended barrow. Their violent shrieks reminded him of the sea and of freedom, but he knew he had work to do before he could leave. He began to plan his next few days as he made his way across the city, and into the Avon Street shambles.

  Charlie had briefed him well. Avon Street had once been home to scores of taverns, but the increasing presence of the police and licensing magistrates had reduced their number to three. John went first to The Smith’s Arms and then to The Odd Fellow’s Arms, but learnt little in either. They were both much as he expected, poorly furnished and dirty; but warm and well lit. Needless to say, pickpockets, thieves and prostitutes seemed well represented in both establishments, but John felt instinctively that the likelihood of a customer being robbed or receiving a beating was greater in The Odd Fellow’s Arms than The Smith’s Arms.

  The Fountains Inn was the last on his itinerary for the day. The place was packed and noisy when he entered, busier than the others had been. John fought his way to the bar and claimed his space. The empty-eyed barman studiously refused to acknowledge his existence, preferring instead to lazily distribute a pool of beer over the bar top with a cloth that had once been white. John was conscious though that the young barmaid had been watching him from the moment he entered. As he looked in her direction, she rewarded him with a broad smile. ‘What’s your pleasure?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll have a navy rum and take a drink for yourself,’ John said, passing a couple of copper coins to her over the shoulder of a man standing alone, both elbows on the bar as if he were about to dive into the quart tankard in front of him.

  ‘A navy fellow, eh?’ the man said, turning to look at John. ‘Just back or just leaving?’

  ‘Landed in Bristol two days ago off The Tempest back from the China Seas,’ John said.

  The man made more room for John and he put his glass on a relatively dry part of the bar. ‘We was destined to meet,’ the man said, his worn face straining into what seemed an unnatural smile, showing teeth stained brown with tobacco. ‘Here’s me going through a bad patch and there’s you newly paid and looking for a chance to make a bit more. I were just on me way to the pawn shop with me missus’ gold wedding ring and I bump into you. Would you be interested in buying it for a fair price?’ he asked. ‘I’ll not get its true worth at the pawnshop.’

  ‘It would depend,’ John said.

  ‘Depend on what?’

  ‘Depend on whether it’s real gold or not, and how much you want for it.’

  The other locals showed little interest in their conversation. John could tell from their expressions that they’d seen it all before, as had he. He noticed that the landlord took himself off to the other end of the bar.

  ‘Let’s see it then,’ John said, as the man eagerly reached inside his waistcoat pocket. He produced the ring and dropped it on the bar where it rang with the true ring of gold. John picked it up from where it lay and dropped it – again the ring rang true.

  ‘I’ll give you five shillings for it,’ John said.

  ‘Done,’ the man replied. ‘Just let me kiss it once for good luck,’ he said, reaching towards the ring on the bar.

  John seized the man’s hand. ‘You didn’t listen,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy this ring, not the brass one you have in your hand. Let’s take a look.’ He prised the man’s fingers painfully apart to reveal a brass ring identical to the one on the bar, including a stamped crown mark.

  The man struggled to free his hand. The ale house had grown quiet and John was aware of the watching, expectant eyes all around him. People on either side began backing away, making space for the fight to come. John studied the man’s eyes. He was angry, but he was nervous, and John thought he could beat him, but it would draw attention and he was not sure if that would be a good or bad thing. If the man had friends there, he knew it was him who would get a beating. He tried to measure the feeling in the room. No one was backing the man up, or trying to intervene.

  John watched as the man’s left hand reached down to his boot, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the bone handle of a knife protruding from the leather. He kicked him in the ankle, and grabbed the man’s wrist as he reached down for the knife. Then he turned him, pulling his right arm up behind his back and using his own left arm to put him into a choke-hold. ‘You can leave with your arm still working, mister, or you can leave with it broken,’ John said. ‘It don’t matter to me either way.’

  ‘Do as he says. Get out!’ The words came from behind him, and John could not tell if they were addressed to him or the man he was holding. He turned to look over his shoulder. The man who had spoken was standing just behind him. He had an ugly, pockmarked face, and John noticed he had a scar under one ear, where his earlobe hung unnaturally loose, like an extended fleshy earring.

  ‘Get out, Fletcher,’ the man said, ‘and don’t come back. We’ve had enough of your tricks in here.’

  John let go of the man, who grabbed at the rings from the bar. Before he could get them, the man with the ragged ear reached across and snatched them from him. ‘I’ll have those,’ he said. ‘Now get out and don’t let me see you in here again.’

  The ring man didn’t even argue. He spat on the floor and left to howls of derision from the crowd.

  John turned to his newfound ally. ‘Thanks for your help, stranger. I’m John.’

  ‘Jeb,’ the man muttered.

  �
�I got caught with the same trick in Shanghai a few months ago, and I wasn’t going to get caught again,’ John said, grinning. Jeb’s expression remained fixed in a scowl. ‘A drink for my friend here,’ John shouted, winking at the barmaid.

  ‘Same again, Jeb?’ she called with a giggle in her voice, ‘and a navy rum for you, sir?’

  ‘Well I were never one to turn away a free drink,’ Jeb said.

  ‘And have one for yourself,’ John called to the barmaid whilst holding his hand out to the man and smiling. Jeb returned his own version of a smile and shook the hand that John offered. His grip was hard, and greasy with sweat.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  By lunchtime the following day John Doyle was nursing a hangover, but was already well acquainted with the strength and disposition of the Cockroad gang from Jeb’s drunken ramblings. He was surprised how easy it had been to befriend the man, and yet how uncomfortable his friendship felt. Perhaps it had been too easy; was it really he who had led Jeb on, or was it Jeb who all the time had been testing and reeling him in?

  When he walked into The Pig and Whistle, Charlie Maggs was already sitting at a table tucking into a plate piled high with chops, potatoes, swedes and turnips covered in thick brown gravy. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I took the gamble that you would still be alive, and ordered the same for you with a pint of beer.’

  No sooner had John taken the seat opposite him, than a steaming plate, at least the equal of Charlie’s platter, was placed in front of him. ‘Don’t worry,’ Charlie said. ‘I was so confident in you that I’ve already paid for it.’

  ‘Have you seen Caine’s den?’ John asked.

  ‘Yeah, I took a walk down there this morning. The place is like a bloody castle; big strong front door with a man on watch outside, and another inside I dare say.’ Charlie seemed to hesitate, watching him as he prepared to speak. ‘If it were just you and me, John, I reckon we could beat them and there’s a lot worth taking in that house, but I’m not sure if James isn’t too much of a gentleman.’

  John stared Charlie in the eyes. ‘He’s got a stronger spirit than you might think. That was a good idea of his, going for Caine’s collectors.’