A Place Called Freedom (1995)

The coal heavers’ wives began to appear, many of them with babies in their arms and children clinging to their skirts. Some had the spirit and beauty of youth, but others looked weary and underfed, the beaten wives of violent and drunken men. Mack guessed they were all here in the hope of getting hold of some of the wages before all the money was drunk, gambled or stolen by whores. Bridget Riley came in with her five children and sat with Dermot and Mack.

Lennox finally showed up at midnight.

He carried a leather sack full of coins and a pair of pistols, presumably to protect him from robbery. The coal heavers, most of whom were drunk by this time, cheered him like a conquering hero when he came in, and Mack felt a momentary contempt toward his workmates: why did they show gratitude for what was no more than their due?

Lennox was a surly man of about thirty, wearing knee boots and a flannel waistcoat with no shirt. He was fit and muscular from carrying heavy kegs of beer and spirits. There was a cruel twist to his mouth. He had a distinctive odor, a sweet smell like rotting fruit. Mack noticed Peg flinch involuntarily as he went by: she was scared of the man.

Lennox pulled a table into a corner and put the sack down and the pistols next to it. The men and women crowded around, pushing and shoving, as if afraid Lennox would run out of cash before their turn came. Mack hung back: it was beneath his dignity to scramble for the wages he had earned.

He heard the harsh voice of Lennox raised over the hubbub. “Each man has earned a pound and eleven pence this week, before bar bills.”

Mack was not sure he had heard right. They had unloaded two ships, some fifteen hundred score, or thirty thousand sacks of coal, giving each man a gross income of about six pounds. How could it have been reduced to little more than a pound each?

There was a groan of disappointment from the men, but none of them questioned the figure. As Lennox began to count out individual payments, Mack said: “Just a minute. How do you work that out?”

Lennox looked up with an angry scowl. “You’ve unloaded one thousand four hundred and forty-five score, which gives each man six pounds and fivepence gross. Deduct fifteen shillings a day for drink—”

“What?” Mack interrupted. “Fifteen shillings a day?” That was three-quarters of their earnings!

Dermot Riley muttered his agreement. “Damned robbery, it is.” He did not say it very loudly, but there were murmurs of agreement from some of the other men and women.

“My commission is sixteen pence per man per ship,” Lennox went on. “There’s another sixteen pence for the captain’s tip, six pence per day for rent of a shovel—”

“Rent of a shovel?” Mack exploded.

“You’re new here and you don’t know the rules, McAsh,” Lennox grated. “Why don’t you shut your damned mouth and let me get on with it, or no one will get paid.”

Mack was outraged, but reason told him Lennox had not invented this system tonight: it was obviously well established, and the men must have accepted it. Peg tugged at his sleeve and said in a low voice: “Don’t cause trouble, Jock—Lennox will make it worse for you somehow.”

Mack shrugged and kept quiet. However, his protest had struck a chord among the others, and Dermot Riley now raised his voice. “I didn’t drink fifteen shillings’ worth of liquor a day,” he said.

His wife added: “For sure he didn’t.”

“Nor did I,” said another man. “Who could? A man would burst with all that beer!”

Lennox replied angrily. “That’s how much I sent on board for you—do you think I can keep a tally of what every man drinks every day?”

Mack said: “If not, you’re the only innkeeper in London who can’t!” The men laughed.

Lennox was infuriated by Mack’s mockery and the laughter of the men. With a thunderous look he said: “The system is, you pay for fifteen shillings’ worth of liquor, whether you drink it or not.”

Mack stepped up to the table. “Well, I have a system too,” he said. “I don’t pay for liquor that I haven’t asked for and haven’t drunk. You may not have kept count but I have, and I can tell you exactly what I owe you.”

“So can I,” said another man. He was Charlie Smith, an English-born Negro with a flat Newcastle accent. “I’ve drunk eighty-three tankards of the small beer you sell in here for fourpence a pint. That’s twenty-seven shillings and eightpence for the entire week, not fifteen shillings a day.”

Lennox said: “You’re lucky to be paid at all, you black villain, you ought to be a slave in chains.”

Charlie’s face darkened. “I’m an Englishman and a Christian, and I’m a better man than you because I’m honest,” he said with controlled fury.

Dermot Riley said: “I can tell you exactly how much I’ve drunk, too.”

Lennox was getting irate. “If you don’t watch yourselves you’ll get nothing at all, any of you,” he said.