“Put some salt in it, it’ll taste better,” said Traveller. There were metal shakers spotted along the table and Traveller smothered his oatmeal. Nobody spoke while they consumed the unappetizing meal. Murdoch was ravenous, but even so, it was hard to enjoy dry bread that was on the verge of being stale. He followed Traveller’s advice with the bread too and dipped it in his mug of tea. Both Alf and Traveller finished before he did and he saw them scouting the table to see if anybody was dawdling over the oatmeal and who might be persuaded to give it up. There wasn’t anybody, even though Murdoch could see several of the out-of-work labourers were pulling faces and muttering to each other.
Bettles and Kearney had taken seats at the end of their table and Murdoch glanced over at them casually and without pausing in his gulping down the porridge, Bettles managed to flick him the thumb.
Traveller, who didn’t seem to miss anything, jerked his head in a warning.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“He’s riding me.”
“’Course he is but you’re the winner if you keep your temper. Besides, t’ain’t nothing to do with you, son. That son of a bitch was just hoping to best me, is the truth. You’re the bait.”
“Why do you say that?”
Traveller didn’t answer immediately, wiping the inside of the mug with his last piece of bread.
“Traveller’s the king,” giggled Alf. “They’s always going for the king.”
Trevelyan grinned. “You ain’t been going around the circuit like we have, Mr. Williams. Us regular tramps become like a court, you might say. We knows each other and we knows our place. I ain’t the oldest, Jesse over there is the oldest, but I’m the strongest and I know the ropes. Sooner or later one of the bucks wants to challenge my position. It’s happened to me since I was a nipper. I was born big and stayed big. And there’s always some cull wants to best me so he can be king.” His keen eyes met Murdoch’s. “They’re too stupid to realize that they’re going to be king of a court filled with courtiers who wear rags and are society’s castouts.”
“Let them have it, then.”
“If it were a matter of stepping aside so they could have first go for the pig’s food they serve us, I’d do it willingly, but it ain’t that simple. Some of these fellows like Bettles won’t be satisfied till they see blood. It’s what you might call primitive. Us men are the same as the wild creatures. We’ve got to prove who’s got the biggest cock, excuse my language. So as long as I’ve got the strength, I’ve got to fight them.”
“And when you don’t have the strength?”
“Then there’ll be a new king, won’t there?”
Murdoch couldn’t tell how old Traveller was. Certainly close to middle age. He was big and looked strong, but more than that he had a formidable presence.
Jesse, the old tramp who was sitting next to Traveller, apparently lost in his own world, suddenly said, “Here, Jack. I can’t stand this tea. Do you want the last of it yourself?”
He shoved his mug toward Traveller.
“Thank you kindly. Even this cat’s piss is better than none at all, though I’d give my right fingers for a good hot, strong cup of char with heaps of sugar.”
He gulped down the tea, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Murdoch would liked to have gone on talking to him, but Hastings appeared again with his bell.
“Listen up, all of you. This meal is being served to you courtesy of the taxpayers of this city. In return you are expected to work. You will follow me to the lumberyard, where you cut and split wood. Those who are physically capable of this work must do it or you will forfeit your dinner. If you are incapable you will be excused and if you can prove that you have prospects of getting work if you leave this morning, you must say so. I will remind you, however, that we are experienced here in the ways of tramps so don’t think you can pull the wool over our eyes. Who here is going for a position this morning?”
Of all sixty men, a half dozen raised their hands.
“You can leave then, but report to the manager in the lumberyard first. Don’t try any gammon, we’ll know.”
Murdoch nudged Traveller. “Why aren’t more of the men trying to find proper work?”
“’Cos there ain’t any to be found. It’s easier to stay here and chop wood than trudge around the city and get turned down every time you try for something. At least you’re guaranteed a bowl of soup for dinner.”
The nabber saw them talking and he scowled. “Quiet, you two. I haven’t finished. Is there anybody here who ain’t going to pay for their keep?”
Four men raised their hands.
“You’ve got to move on then.”
“That’s what I was planning to do,” growled one grizzled tramp. He must have gone through the bathhouse, but his clothes were so wretched and dirty, his skin so weatherbeaten, he seemed filthy. The other three men were similar and Murdoch gathered they were at the end of their permitted three days and preferred to take their chances on getting dinner and leave the workhouse. He hoped none of them was the one he was looking for and he tried to memorize what they looked like.
“Are you going to work?” he asked Traveller.
“I am, I’ve got one more day here.”
“What about your hernia? Will it give you trouble?”
Jack winked. “I never know when that damn thing is going to act up. Sometimes I can’t do anything, sometimes I can. Today, I’m all right.”
The nabber rang his bell again. He must enjoy doing that, thought Murdoch.
“The rest of you follow me. Orderly and quiet now.”
The men at the table began to move out from the benches.
“Hang back,” Traveller muttered. “It’s better to be with the last group in the lumberyard. They might not have enough piles for everybody.”
They followed the nabber out of the dining room and back down the stairs. He pushed open a heavy door.
“Don’t think you can get away with shirking because you can’t. Remember, you can still be turned out.”
As he walked out to the lumberyard, Murdoch entertained himself with the fantasy of stuffing the old codger’s head into his own bell.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A MAN IN A BLACK OVERCOAT and fedora was waiting for them in the yard. He was short and stout, with grey side whiskers and a walrus moustache. A gold pincenez, with a gold chain, was perched on his stubby nose. Everything about him said minister, especially his nervous smile as he watched the tramps coming through the door. Murdoch saw Parker, hopping on his crutches, come out from the infirmary side. He didn’t look any the worse for wear, rather the opposite, to Murdoch’s jaundiced eye. Ed looked rested, far better than he himself felt. There were three nabbers, also waiting, one of them the boss, Gowan, from the day before.
The tramp major blew on his mittened hands against the cold. “All right then. The sooner you start working, the sooner you’ll get warm. Over here is the Reverend Elmore Harris, who in case you should want to look him up, is the pastor of Walmer Road Baptist Church. He’s the manager for today and he’s here to help me sort out the wheat from the chaff or, to translate for you heathens, the liars from the truth-tellers.”
One of the attendants handed him a list, which he stared at.
“The following men will step forward, Barnes, Carson, Keats, and Stepney. I understand you’re claiming to be unfit to work. Let me see you with my own eyes.”
The old man who’d given Traveller his tea stepped forward. The others were also elderly and one had the racking cough of the consumptive, currently aggravated by the cold air.
Gowan inspected them as if they were cattle he was buying. “What do you think, pastor?”
“I’d say they are definitely excused. I think the fellow on the end should go over to the infirmary and see if he can get some cough medicine.”
“That’s Stepney. Go on then and count yourself lucky. The other three of you can carry the wood when it’s split and stack it in the cart
s over there. That’s not too hard. Now who has refused to work? Step forward where I can see you and state your name.”
The four men who had put up their hands in the dining room did as he said and Gowan made an obvious point of writing down their names.
“Off you go, then. I know who you are so don’t expect to come back here and freeload off decent citizens. And if you bother anybody for money, you will be charged with vagrancy and thrown in jail.”
Traveller snorted at that and muttered to Murdoch, “Sometimes jail is better than being in here. You get more to eat.”
Gowan tossed his record book to the nearby nabber.
“Now then, some of you know what to do, some of you don’t, so I’ll explain. All of those logs over there, kindly donated by Elias Rogers, have got to be sawed into four pieces. Those blocks then have to be chopped and split. That’s not too complicated for any of you, is it?”
The nabbers began tagging various men and directing them to the trestles. All of the logs had been previously cut to length, and in spite of the circumstances and the cold, and the perpetual itching of his jersey, Murdoch felt a surge of pleasure at the sweet raw wood smell. He inhaled as if it were a perfume, aware of the quizzical glance from Traveller.
A nabber touched his arm. “You can chop.”
Traveller, Alf, Bettles, and Kearney had also been designated as choppers and they stood together waiting until the first block of wood was sawn off. Murdoch seized his chance and strolled over to Parker, who had been given the job of counting the number of blocks. He was perched on a spare trestle, a pad and pencil in his hand.
“Feeling better, are you?” Murdoch asked.
“Thank you, sir. I am that.”
Murdoch moved a little closer and turned so that he was standing beside Parker and appeared to be casually looking over the tramps getting to work. “Do you see your boots?”
Ed focused on his pad. “It’s hard to tell. They weren’t special, just old black boots. There are four coves I’ve seen who could be wearing them.”
“Point them out.”
“The simpleton who was by you in the queue for one, and the man in the yellow muffler.”
“There’s two with yellow mufflers, which is it?”
“The younger one with the bruise on his mug. Also, the cove in the plaid cap who was beside you.”
“Who else?”
Before Ed could answer, Gowan called over to them.
“Oi, you. Williams. What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a church club. Get busy or I’ll put you on notice as a shirker.”
“Quick, who else?”
“Maybe the old guy who just got sent off to the infirmary.”
“Did you get a look at the ones who left?”
Ed shook his head. “No, sorry.”
“I’ll come back,” Murdoch muttered to Ed. “Keep looking.”
He went back to where Traveller and the others were starting to stack their blocks ready for chopping.
“How’s the lad doing?” Traveller asked Murdoch.
“He seems all right.”
“Did you know him from before then?”
“No, I was just concerned. He could have drowned.”
Traveller grinned. “Mebbe. But everybody knows if you can get a night in the infirmary you get some grub and a better breakfast.” He jerked his head in the direction of the manager. “Gowan’s watching you. He’s a mean son of a bitch. You’d better get busy.”
Murdoch removed his hat and his sealskin coat and placed them on the ground out of the way. The sun was sparkling on the patches of snow and the sky was a brilliant blue. The price for this brightness was icy temperatures and his breath was like smoke in front of him, the cold air penetrating through even his thick jersey.
The choppers were picking up axes that were lined up against the fence. Murdoch went to get his. He tested the blades on a couple. None were very sharp, but one of them was balanced well enough so he chose it and returned to his spot.
One of the men had finished sawing his log. He had the wide shoulders and smooth movements of a logger and his logs were appearing fast.
“Where was your crib?” Murdoch asked him as he picked up two of the blocks.
“Huntsville. Know it?”
“Sure do. I was a chopper there myself about twelve years ago.”
Traveller heard him.
“I thought you said you was just now from a camp and that you’d hurt your back.”
“That’s right. It wasn’t Huntsville, though.”
He stood one of the blocks on top of the other and took a swing at it, feeling the satisfaction of seeing the wood divide cleanly into two pieces.
“Your back seems fine now,” said Traveller.
“Bit sore, but it’ll do.” And he stacked another piece of wood. Alf was next to him making wild and futile stabs at chopping his block of wood. Murdoch stopped what he was doing.
“Here, Alf. Let me show you. Best to put one piece of wood on top of the other. It’s easier on your back that way. Now hold your axe nice and loose, don’t clutch it like that. It’s important to aim for the crack in the wood. See that one there. Stand with your legs apart and bend at the knees as you come down. Here, like this.”
He showed him and split the wood cleanly. Alf laughed as if he had shown him a magician’s trick.
Bettles and Kearney had been leisurely collecting their blocks and Bettles called over to them.
“You’re in a good humour this morning, Alf. You must have slept well. Lots of lovely dreams, I suspect, from the noises you were making.”
Alf nodded uneasily. Murdoch was standing close to Traveller and he saw the tension in the tramp’s body.
“You must have had good dreams yourself, Bettles,” said Traveller. “For a while there I thought I was in a pigsty what with the stink and the snorting going on. Then I realized it was all coming from your bed. I hope you changed your blanket this morning.”
Alf made the mistake of giggling, little beads of saliva bubbling out of his mouth. Suddenly, Bettles stepped forward and grabbed his crotch. “Don’t laugh at me, Alf. I don’t like it.”
Alf shrieked as Bettles squeezed his testicles. Gowan turned around.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Bettles stepped back while poor Alf clutched himself, tears in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” Gowan repeated glaring at them.
Traveller put his arm around Alf’s shoulder. “The poor lad bumped into a trestle. He’ll be all right.”
The trestles weren’t close by, but Gowan didn’t question the explanation. “Watch where you’re going, you knocky lad.”
Alf was still convulsed with pain and Traveller started to walk him up and down. Murdoch struggled to contain his own anger. He didn’t dare get drawn into anything. All he could do was vow to himself that he’d see that Bettles got paid back.
Gowan stabbed his finger at Bettles. “You, get chopping or I’ll throw you out. There’s plenty of blocks coming now. You too, Traveller. The boy can sit out for a few minutes, but you ain’t his nurse so you can leave him.”
Traveller returned to the trestle and picked up his axe. He didn’t say anything, just stacked his blocks and started to chop. Both Bettles and Kearney were tensed and ready for retaliation, but as none was forthcoming, they had no choice but to pick up their axes and start to work. Murdoch cautiously resumed his chopping as well. Jesse was collecting the split pieces of wood and carrying them over to carts near the wall. For the next little while, everybody was busy, the yard filled with the thunk, thunk of the axes. Murdoch was starting to sweat despite the cold.
What happened next was so fast, he didn’t see it. He had bent down to stack his next block of wood. He glimpsed Traveller raising his axe to swing at his own piece, but somehow the axe flew out of his hand. Bettles was standing about eight feet away and the axe caught him on the side of the head. He dropped to the ground, blood gushing from his split scalp. Kea
rney yelled and ran over to him, as did Murdoch. Bettles groaned and tried to sit up.
“Don’t move,” said Murdoch. He went to get out his handkerchief, forgetting he didn’t have one. “Damn it.”
The pastor and the tramp major came over to see what had happened.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” Murdoch asked them and Reverend Harris quickly handed him one of fine white linen. Murdoch wiped away some of the blood from Bettles’s head.
“Hold this tight against your head and sit up slowly,” he said to Bettles.
“What the hell happened?” asked Gowan.
“My axe must ’ave slipped,” said Traveller. “The wood is wet. I trust I haven’t caused this man a serious injury,”
The manager swirled around and glared at him.
“What the hell were you doing? You could’ve brained the man.”
“I told you my axe slipped. Ain’t that right, Kearney? You saw what happened. It was an accident.”
The Irishman could only nod. Bettles looked murderous. The blood was spilling through his fingers and down his hand into his sleeve.
“He should get to a doctor,” Murdoch said to Gowan.
All the men had stopped their work and were standing gawking.
“You, Kearney, help him to the infirmary. The rest of you, the opera’s over, get back to work.”
Bettles managed to get to his feet but shook off Kearney’s hand.
“I can manage,” he said. He looked over at Traveller but didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His message was obvious. With the pastor hovering on one side and Kearney on the other, he left the yard, drops of blood marking their path. Even Alf was quiet.
Traveller turned back to the piece of wood he’d been chopping. “He’ll be all right. Scalp wounds always bleed a lot.”
He grinned at Murdoch, who restacked his log. He made sure he wasn’t standing where there could be another accidental slip.
About half an hour later, Kearney and the minister returned.
“How’s Bettles?” asked Murdoch.
“He’s on the mend. The bleeding has stopped,” answered Harris.
“Thank the Lord,” said Traveller in a loud voice. “I am spared having the death of a man on my conscience.”
Vices of My Blood Page 21
