A Place Called Freedom (1995)

She stared at him in surprise.

“It’s what we always wanted, isn’t it?” he said. “A fresh start in a new country—an adventure!”

Slowly her face broke into a smile. “Really? Virginia? Can it really be true?”

He could hardly believe she would consent. “Will you accept it, then?” he said fearfully.

She smiled. Tears came to her eyes and she could not speak. She nodded dumbly.

Jay realized he had won. He had got everything he wanted. The feeling was like winning a big hand at cards. It was time to rake in his profits.

He stood up. He drew her out of her chair and gave her his arm. “Come with me, then,” he said. “Let’s get married.”

17

AT NOON ON THE THIRD DAY, THE HOLD OF THE DURHAM Primrose was empty of coal.

Mack looked around, hardly able to believe it had really happened. They had done it all without an undertaker.

They had watched the riverside and picked out a coal ship that arrived in the middle of the day, when the other gangs were already working. While the men waited on the riverbank, Mack and Charlie rowed out to the ship as it anchored and offered their services, starting immediately. The captain knew that if he held out for a regular gang he would have to wait until the following day, and time was money to ships’ captains, so he hired them.

The men seemed to work faster knowing they would be paid in full. They still drank beer all day, but paying for it jar by jar they took only what they needed. And they uncoaied the ship in forty-eight hours.

Mack shouldered his shovel and went on deck. The weather was cold and misty, but Mack was hot from the hold. As the last sack of coal was thrown down onto the boat a great cheer went up from the coal heavers.

Mack conferred with the first mate. The boat carried five hundred sacks and they had both kept count of the number of round trips it had made. Now they counted the odd sacks left for the last trip and agreed on the total. Then they went to the captain’s cabin.

Mack hoped there would be no last-minute snags. They had done the work: they had to be paid now, didn’t they?

The captain was a thin, middle-aged man with a big red nose. He smelled of rum. “Finished?” he said. “You’re quicker than the usual gangs. What’s the tally?”

“Six hundred score, all but ninety-three,” the first mate said, and Mack nodded. They counted in scores, or twenties, because each man was paid a penny per score.

He beckoned them inside and sat down with an abacus. “Six hundred score less ninety-three, at sixteen pence per score …” It was a complicated sum, but Mack was used to being paid by the weight of coal he produced, and he could do mental arithmetic when his wages depended on it.

The captain had a key on a chain attached to his belt. He used it to open a chest that stood in the corner. Mack stared as he took out a smaller box, put it on the table, and opened it. “If we call the odd seven sacks a half score, I owe you thirty-nine pounds fourteen shillings exactly.” And he counted out the money.

The captain gave him a linen bag to carry it in and included plenty of pennies so that he could share it out exactly among the men. Mack felt a tremendous sense of triumph as he held the money in his hands. Each man had earned almost two pounds and ten shillings—more in two days than they got for two weeks with Lennox. But more important, they had proved they could stand up for their rights and win justice.

He sat cross-legged on the deck of the ship to pay the men out. The first in line, Amos Tipe, said: “Thank you, Mack, and God bless you, boy.”

“Don’t thank me, you earned it,” Mack protested.

Despite his protest the next man thanked him in the same way, as if he were a prince dispensing favors.

“It’s not just the money,” Mack said as a third man, Slash Harley, stepped forward. “We’ve won our dignity, too.”

“You can have the dignity, Mack,” said Slash. “Just give me the money.” The others laughed.

Mack felt a little angry with them as he continued to count out the coins. Why could they not see that this was more than a matter of today’s wages? When they were so stupid about their own interests he felt they deserved to be abused by undertakers.

However, nothing could mar his victory. As they were all rowed to shore the men began lustily to sing a very obscene song called “The Mayor of Bayswater,” and Mack joined in at the top of his voice.

He and Dermot walked to Spitalfields. The morning fog was lifting. Mack had a tune on his lips and a spring in his step. When he entered his room a pleasant surprise was waiting for him. Sitting on a three-legged stool, smelling of sandalwood and swinging a shapely leg, was Peg’s red-haired friend Cora, in a chestnut-colored coat and a jaunty hat.

She had picked up his cloak, which normally lay on the straw mattress that was his bed, and she was stroking the fur. “Where did you get this?” she said.

“It was a gift from a fine lady,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”