by Chris Hannon
When the cart pulled to a stop, a half-dozen police were already there, and sealed them safely dockside. Perry hopped down with the others. Greaves was shaking hands with Jespers outside the warehouse, explaining the day’s tasks to the Portsmouth dockers. Some came and shook Perry’s hand, thanking him. He felt like he had done some good and prevented what could have been a nasty fight between the dockers.
Perry went to Greaves’ office and waited. The sound of the jeering Southampton dockers was louder than before. Perhaps Bigtoe and the others had joined them now. Greaves came inside rubbing his hands together.
‘I’ve sent for a couple of teas.’
Perry looked at the clock. Only eight. ‘Could be a long day with that lot making such a racket. A tea ain’t a bad way to start it Mr Greaves.’
‘Well you deserve it. Mr Jespers was very appreciative of your quick thinking. I am too. That’s why I hired you.’
Perry gave a weak smile, ‘Thanks.’
‘Here’s what you were promised for your information.’
Perry accepted the four pounds, added them to the rest in his handkerchief and tied it securely.
‘I wonder if this might be the start of something great,’ Greaves said.
‘I hope so…Mr Greaves?’
‘Yes Perry?’
‘Do you smell burning?’
They hurried outside. Smoke billowed into the air from two - no, three places. The dockers numbered fifty or so now.
‘Scabs!’
‘Blacklegs!’
The Bobbies linked arms to form a line. ‘Hold steady men!’ one yelled.
‘Christ, they’re outnumbered three to one,’ said Greaves.
Mr Jespers came over. He wore a worried expression and mopped his bald head with a rag. ‘This don’t look too good Mr Greaves.’
‘You carry on Jespers. I’d like that ship loaded and on the water by three.’
Jespers glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘I’m worried for my men Mr Greaves. I done this before. I ain’t never seen any as angry as that.’
Greaves nodded. ‘You have my word, I’ll go straight to the Mayor’s office now with master Perry here, we’ll see to it that reinforcements are sent,’ he produced a key from his pocket, ‘if they breach the police line, lock yourselves in the warehouse.’
‘Much obliged,’ Jespers said and cautiously returned to a laden cart.
There was a dull thud. The police were shielding themselves with their hands. A scattering of stones lay on the ground around them. Someone was screaming. The line was falling apart.
‘Mr Greaves, we need to get out of here fast. I can get us round this lot.’
Greaves mopped his brow with a hankie, ‘Then do it boy for God’s sake! Get us out of here.’
It took their combined might to yank the old skiff down the slipway. The oars were weather-beaten but they had little other choice. Perry rowed, while Greaves bucketed out water from the bottom.
‘Oh my lord, they’ve set alight to all the carts.’
Perry stopped rowing and looked to the shore, following the smoke down to the blazing carts. People bolted from the shopfronts with boxes, others just ran for cover.
‘Blimey! They’re looting!’
‘Can’t you go any faster boy?’
He snapped back to his task and continued east, Greaves yelling at him from time to time, ‘Come on man, pull!’
By the time they got to the shore of prison, his arms ached terribly. Perry hopped off the rowing boat and heaved the rope so the skiff stuck in the sand. Greaves leant on Perry’s shoulder to climb down.
‘Mr Greaves. I ain’t coming to town with you. I need to see my Pa,’ he nodded at the prison.
‘Good god, he’s in there?’
‘Aye,’ said Perry.
‘Well you’ve put yourself in danger enough today. Keep your wits about you and stay out of the port,’ his eyes darted around suspiciously.
‘Thanks for everything, Mr Greaves…’ Perry wanted to say more, that with this money he truly had the chance to start again in someplace better.
‘Dear boy, what are you thanking me for? I shall see you tomorrow. There’ll be a right old mess for us to sort out then.’
Greaves hurried up the beach towards the road.
At the prison gates the guard stood straight-backed with his hands at his sides. Perry recognised him from before.
‘Alright there?’
‘What can I do for ya?’
‘Need to see that feller I saw last time please.’
The guard shook his head. ‘Not today son.’
‘Oh alright, I see,’ Perry reached into his pocket for a couple of pennies. ‘Here you go.’
‘No son, it ain’t like that.’
‘I need to see him. Today.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the guard.
Annoyance prickled at Perry, ‘And a pound? Would that be enough?’
The guard looked at him with pity, ‘I’m sorry son, Warden’s orders. None out, none in while there’s a riot in town. If the prisoners find out, it’s the sort of thing that’s infectious.’
‘Please. It’s Samuel Scrimshaw, my Pa, I need to see him.’
‘I’d lose my job. There’s nothing I can do short of passing on a message.’
‘But it really has to be today. This is my only chance.’
The guard rested his hand on Perry’s shoulder, ‘I’ll tell him you came, I promise.’
His lip quivered, he bit it, held his voice as strong as he could. ‘Tell him to be wary of the doctor and that I’m sorry, sorry I couldn’t see him. And tell him goodbye.’
The guard blurred. He wiped his eyes clear with his cuffs, refusing to let himself cry, and began his lonely walk back to town.
It was chaos. Two burning barrels rolled down the hill and smashed into a blazing carriage. It seemed as though every thief, town rough and troublemaker had seeped out of the Ward and into town. Respectable folk at the harbourfront windows looked down in horror at the hell setting up camp around them.
A scrawny wretch sat atop the Bell & Mast sign over the door, a bottle of gin in his hand, proclaiming the end of the world nigh. Perry had no idea how he’d gotten up there or how he’d get down.
He kept looking around, it was hard to see who was who; most faces were blackened by the smoke soot. At the water’s edge, Perry recognised the coal porter dangling some poor soul from his feet, shaking him down and yelling at him.
Rage bloomed inside him. On the floor was some blackened plank, broken off from a cart. He grabbed it; it was a bit too long and heavy. He carried it lengthways. His muscles were still tired and raw from rowing.
Ten paces away. He roared and ran at him. Still holding onto the man’s boots, the porter turned. But it was too late. The whites of his eyes were so stark against his blackened cheeks.
‘Oof!’ the force of the collision sent Perry bouncing back to the floor. The coal porter dropped his prey, arms waving as he too went over the ledge.
The quarry hit the water first, collateral damage, then, with a satisfying splosh the coal porter followed.
Perry peered over the edge. The porter’s victim was swimming towards the steps. Then the water broke, and up popped the coal porter.
‘Oi!’
Perry gave him a cheery wave. The coal porter spat water out of his mouth.
‘I’m gonna have you!’ he yelled, treading water. Perhaps a little mayhem wasn’t so bad after all. Eva would love it when he told her about this later.
By one o’clock the admiralty had sent two gunships into Southampton harbour to protect the shipping trade and passenger liners. A man with a bloodied head claimed that the army had been sent for. The wounded were being stretchered, even police among them. The fire brigade were pumping whatever they could over the worst of the fires.
Perry kept himself hidden near the balustrades on the bell tower steps, biting his nails, checking the clock every minute or so. The rest of the time, he looked w
est, where Eva would come. He resisted the urge to go back for her. They said they would meet by the docks, she would find a way through. For him, she would.
He cowered behind the stone, peering through the gaps for his enemies. A group of men with bats charged down the steps in the direction of the warehouse. He hoped Mr Jespers and his crew had found a safe spot away from all this carnage. He couldn’t believe that amidst all this, he had been successful. The money was a thick wad in his pocket, enough to be taken without documents for a passage to France or wherever the next boat was heading. They would make a new life, a better life than all this.
The clock tower said it was five minutes past one when he saw her yellow hair in the distance. He sprang to his feet. God she was beautiful. She looked this way and that, tucked her hair behind her ear and crossed the road.
‘Eva!’ he yelled, but she was too far away to hear.
She was walking fast to the cargo docks, just like he’d told her to. He wondered if she’d taken the jar money too. He hoped Joel would understand.
He leapt down the steps, wanting to be by her side to protect her. She moved so quickly, Perry had to jog to close the gap. At the docks he eased his way around the stacks of crates, keeping an eye out for Maxwell and his cronies.
He eased round one of the stacks, his back flush against the wood. Nearly there.
And there she was, walking along the jetty. There was a ship being loaded. It would do, they’d bribe their way on. The gunboats in the harbour were keeping things in order. The captain stood at the foot of the gangway, smoking a pipe. He shouted at a minion to fasten something and sucked again at his pipe. Eva approached him and looked around. Looked around for him.
Perry stepped from behind the crate and onto the jetty. There was a flash of movement. A heavy fist thundered into his midriff. He gasped desperately for air. A sack came over his head, tied roughly around his neck. Stars of light made it through the gaps in the hessian, not enough to see who, to see how many. He couldn’t breathe. He kicked his legs out, tried to make a sound and the blow came, cracking into his head. Pain exploded orange and red. He stopped struggling and his legs slid from under him. He tried to wriggle free. Then a second blow landed and Perry lost consciousness.
The Screw Steamer powered through the sea, slicing the blue into even streams of white froth. Several crates of provisions were strapped tight beneath deck. The lifeboats on deck were all covered with tarpaulins.
Under one of the tarps, Perry stirred. His vision was dull and his head ached in a way he didn’t think possible. His mouth, stuffed and tied with a rag, was dry and his ears rung as if placed to a seashell. He wriggled. The bindings on his hands and ankles gave. Just a bit.
He wriggled again.
17
9 months later.
Buenos Aires, February, 1891
On the world map it was little more than a blue thread, yet to Perry, the water he spied between the corrugated shacks and warehouses was so vast it could not really be a river. It was surely the Atlantic. From his spot in the sunshine, he made out dots in a random formation on the blue horizon, enough boats for an invasion. A whistle shrilled, pulling Perry away from his daydream. Break was over.
He tucked his newspaper under his arm and hopped off the crate. He followed some Italian workers talking over one another and passed a group of Criollos finishing up a game of Truco on a stack of timber. Soon, they were all back in Julio Freight Station.
Steam hissed from the Tucumán train; black and brooding as a resting bull. Freight cars heaped high with bright yellow lemons trailed behind. Perry joined up with Vázquez, a stocky fellow a couple of years older than himself.
Their pairing up was an unspoken thing. They weren’t friends exactly, but both were casual workers who often found themselves working at the same company at the same time. Puerto Madero was funny like that – you got to know most faces after a time.
Perry liked working with Vázquez; he was the strong, quiet sort. A week passed quicker if you didn’t have to spend it responding to the same questions. Where was he from? Was he thinking of going home? How long would he be staying in Buenos Aires? In what lodging was he living? How much was it? Did they have any space? God it was tiresome.
Vázquez pushed a trolley drum over to one of the freight cars and locked it in place. Perry wrested on his gloves. They were damp with sweat and oil. He hopped up onto the trolley’s ledge and leant against the freight car for support. He reached back and a hatch key was instantly placed in his palm.
‘Gracias,’ Perry said. Vázquez grunted.
Perry locked the key in place and wound the handle with both hands. He did it as fast as he could, enjoying the ache in his arms. Slowly, the teeth of the hatch prised apart and the first lemons tumbled out into the trolley drum.
‘Rápido no?’ said Perry.
Vázquez didn’t look impressed.
All afternoon, they took turns, competing with one another to open the hatches as quickly as they could. By the end of the day Perry’s muscles were raw and his shirt soaked through with sweat. Vázquez didn’t look nearly as tired and had come out on top in their little game. Perry consoled himself that he was getting quicker and dunked his head in a bucket of water, pawing away the worst of the grime and dust from his face. He grabbed his bag and joined the queue of workers outside the station office and let the sun dry his face and hair. While he waited, the train shunted out of Julio station. A caterpillar of steam trailed into the azure sky. The Italians, ahead of him in the queue, lit up smokes and shared one with Vázquez. They never bothered to offer him one but he didn’t mind; though he liked a smoke now and then it was a habit he couldn’t afford to get into.
The queue shrunk until it was Perry’s turn to enter the station office. It was a functional space with a simple desk, filing cabinets and a worn stone floor. It was stuffy, starved of the costonera breeze. Still, someone had to work there he supposed.
‘Siguiente!’
‘Señor.’ Perry stepped forward and noticed a gecko clinging to the pock-marked wall.
The foreman, a sun-crinkled old timer called Campi, nodded in acknowledgment and counted down a register with a pencil, scribbled something and then handed Perry an envelope. Perry prised it apart and did a quick count of his wages. It was all there.
‘Sign,’ Campi said, in accented English.
Perry signed, noticing the other men had simply put an X by their names.
‘No work tomorrow, but we have work Monday,’ said the foreman.
He’d take all the work he could,.‘Definitely. Put me down.’
‘You good worker,’ Campi reached into his pocket.
‘Thank you.’
‘Here,’ the foreman took out a large padlock, ‘lock the warehouse door on your way.’
It wasn’t something he had been asked to do before.
‘You’re the last one,’ Campi said, as if by explanation.
Outside, a breeze was picking up. The warehouse was a short walk along the train tracks. The doors were still ajar and he went inside. The deep smell of soil hit him first, then the tang of lemons. The crates were stacked high, wall to wall, perhaps twelve, maybe thirteen hundred in number. He looked around; light cut in through gaps in the roof. Satisfied, he left, securing the padlock firmly in place.
He left Julio station and went north to San Telmo. He stopped at a corner bar. It was a cheap place where the dockworkers stood in the street, drinking, chatting and smoking. He preferred it inside and took one of the splintered stools at the bar. A cup of wine appeared almost immediately in front of him.
‘Gracias Lucho,’ Perry slapped down a ten-centavo coin and put the cup to his lips.
The wine was warm and heavy. He loved the buzz once it slid down and burrowed in the pit of his stomach. His temples softened. He got out his newspaper again, The Southampton Times, and continued from where he was reading on his break.
When he finished, he folded it into four and placed it on the bar
under an ashtray.
‘That one any good?’ Lucho was cleaning a cup out with a grubby towel.
Perry shrugged.
‘I’ll have the next lot of copies in for you Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.’
‘Great, thanks.’
‘What’s the latest news in England then?’
Perry sighed. ‘Hard to say, the most recent one I have is four months out of date.’
‘Better than nothing right?’
‘I guess.’
‘Well if you miss home so much why don’t you just go there?’
‘That’s the plan.’ Perry wasn’t in the mood for chatting and turned the barstool so it faced outside.
Plenty of dockworkers were still outside, pockets stuffed with weekly wages. A couple of whores were out, cunningly early, picking out the weakest ones. He thought of Eva and prayed that she wasn’t still at Ma’s; that she’d got out of there. He shuddered and knocked back the rest of the wine.
18
America Street was a dozen blocks back from the port, right in the heart of La Boca. It was mostly cheap lodging houses serving only to cram as many workers and immigrant families as could pay and fit.
It was early Saturday morning and getting light, but the street was still in the clutches of Friday night. Halfway down the block, a man left a brothel and stumbled into the road. Rats gathered around small heaps of rubbish, while an accordion’s sad notes floated from a nearby tango bar.
Perry let the raggedy curtain fall back onto the window. It didn’t make much difference; it was as opaque as fishing net. Everything about the place was lacking. The four rows of bunks, the groaning springs that held. Just. While he worried that the big Irishman on the top bunk would fall through during the night and crush him, his other roommates slept well. No doubt they were aided by booze, but their sleep-sputtering was just another thing to stop him sleeping sound.
