A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Of course he had to earn his living. It was not easy. London swarmed with starving families who had fled from country districts where there was no food, for there had been two years of bad harvests. There were also thousands of hand-loom silk weavers, put out of work by the new northern factories, so Dermot said. For every job there were five desperate applicants. The unlucky ones had to beg, steal, prostitute themselves or starve.

Dermot himself was a weaver. He had a wife and five children living in two rooms in Spitalfields. In order to get by they had to sublet Dermot’s workroom, and Mack slept there, on the floor, beside the big silent loom that stood as a monument to the hazards of city life.

Mack and Dermot looked for work together. They sometimes got taken on as waiters in coffeehouses, but they lasted only a day or so: Mack was too big and clumsy to carry trays and pour drinks into little cups, and Dermot, being proud and touchy, always insulted a customer sooner or later. One day Mack was taken on as a footman in a big house in Clerkenwell, but he quit next morning after the master and mistress of the house asked him to get into bed with them. Today they had got portering work, carrying huge baskets of fish in the waterfront market at Billingsgate. At the end of the day Mack had been reluctant to waste his money on a theater ticket, but Dermot swore he would not regret it. Dermot had been right: it was worth twice the price to see such a marvel. All the same Mack worried about how long it could take him to save enough money to send for Esther.

Walking east from the theater, heading for Spitalfields, they passed through Covent Garden, where whores accosted them from doorways. Mack had been in London almost a month, and he was getting used to being offered sex at every corner. The women were of all kinds, young and old, ugly and beautiful, some dressed like fine ladies and others in rags. None of them tempted Mack, though there were many nights he thought wistfully of his lusty cousin Annie.

In the Strand was the Bear, a rambling whitewashed tavern with a coffee room and several bars around a courtyard. The heat of the theater had made them thirsty, and they went inside for a drink. The atmosphere was warm and smoky. They each bought a quart of ale.

Dermot said: “Let’s take a look out the back.”

The Bear was a sporting venue. Mack had been here before, and he knew that bearbaiting, dogfights, sword fights between women gladiators and all kinds of amusements were held in the backyard. When there was no organized entertainment the landlord would throw a cat into the duck pond and set four dogs on it, a game that generated uproarious laughter among the drinkers.

Tonight a prizefighting ring had been set up, lit by numerous oil lamps. A dwarf in a silk suit and buckled shoes was haranguing a crowd of drinkers. “A pound for anyone who can knock down the Bermondsey Bruiser! Come on, my lads, is there a brave one among you?” He turned three somersaults.

Dermot said to Mack: “You could knock him down, I’d say.”

The Bermondsey Bruiser was a scarred man wearing nothing but breeches and heavy boots. He was shaved bald, and his face and head bore the marks of many fights. He was tall and heavy, but he looked stupid and slow. “I suppose I could,” Mack said.

Dermot was enthusiastic. He grabbed the dwarf by the arm and said: “Hey, short-arse, here’s a customer for you.”

“A contender!” the dwarf bellowed, and the crowd cheered and clapped.

A pound was a lot of money, a week’s wages for many people. Mack was tempted. “All right,” he said.

The crowd cheered again.

“Watch out for his feet,” said Dermot. “There’ll be steel in the toes of his boots.”

Mack nodded, taking off his coat.

Dermot added: “Be ready for him to jump you as soon as you get in the ring. There’ll be no waiting for a signal to begin, mind you.”

It was a common trick in fights between miners down the pit. The quickest way to win was to start before the other was ready. A man would say: “Come on and fight in the tunnel where there’s more room,” then hit his opponent as he stepped across the drainage ditch.

The ring was a rough circle of rope about waist height, supported by old wooden staves hammered into the mud. Mack approached, mindful of Dermot’s warning. As he lifted his foot to step over the rope, the Bermondsey Bruiser rushed him.

Mack was ready for it, and he stepped back out of reach, catching a glancing blow to his forehead from the Bruiser’s massive fist. The crowd gasped.

Mack acted without thinking, like a machine. He stepped quickly to the ring and kicked the Bruiser’s shin under the rope, causing him to stumble. A cheer went up from the spectators, and Mack heard Dermot’s voice yelling: “Kill him, Mack!”