A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Sir George reddened. It infuriated him when the lower orders failed to treat him with deference. “Go to the devil!” he said, and he slammed the door in the man’s face.

He went back to the study and Jay followed him. As they sat down they heard the sound of breaking glass. They both jumped up again and rushed into the dining room at the front of the house. There was a broken pane in one of the two windows and a stone on the polished wood floor. “That’s Best Crown Glass!” Sir George said furiously. “Two shillings a square foot!” As they stood staring, another stone crashed through the other window.

Sir George stepped into the hall and spoke to the footman. “Tell everyone to move to the back of the house, out of harm’s way,” he said.

The footman, looking scared, said: “Wouldn’t it be better just to put candles in the windows like they said, sir?”

“Shut your damned mouth and do as you’re told,” Sir George replied.

There was a third smash somewhere upstairs, and Jay heard his mother scream in fright. He ran up the stairs, his heart pounding, and met her coming out of the drawing room. “Are you all right, Mama?”

She was pale but calm. “I’m fine—what’s happening?”

Sir George came up the stairs saying with suppressed fury: “Nothing to be afraid of, just a damned Wilkesite mob. We’ll stay out of the way until they’ve gone.”

As more windows were smashed they all hurried into the small sitting-room at the rear of the house. Jay could see his father was boiling with rage. Being forced to retreat was guaranteed to madden him. This might be the moment to bring up Lennox’s request again. Throwing caution to the winds he said: “You know, Father, we really have to start dealing more decisively with these troublemakers.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I was thinking of McAsh and the coal heavers. If they’re allowed to defy authority once, they’ll do it again.” It was not like him to speak this way, and he caught a curious glance from his mother. He plowed on. “Better to nip these things in the bud. Teach them to know their place.”

Sir George looked as if he were about to make another angry rejoinder; then he hesitated, scowled and said: “You’re absolutely right. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

Jay smiled.

20

As MACK WALKED DOWN THE MUDDY LANE KNOWN AS Wapping High Street he felt he knew what it must be like to be king. From every tavern doorway, from windows and yards and rooftops, men waved at him, called out his name and pointed him out to their friends. Everyone wanted to shake his hand. But the men’s appreciation was nothing compared with that of their wives. The men were not only bringing home three or four times as much money, they were also ending the day much soberer. The women embraced him in the street and kissed his hands and called to their neighbors, saying: “It’s Mack McAsh, the man who defied the undertakers, come quick and see!”

He reached the waterfront and looked over the broad gray river. The tide was high and there were several new ships at anchor. He looked for a boatman to row him out. The traditional undertakers waited at their taverns until the captains came to them and asked for a gang to uncoal their ships: Mack and his gangs went to the captains, saving them time and making sure of the work.

He went out to the Prince of Denmark and climbed aboard. The crew had gone ashore, leaving one old sailor smoking a pipe on deck. He directed Mack to the captain’s cabin. The skipper was at the table, writing laboriously in the ship’s log with a quill pen. “Good day to you, Captain,” Mack said with a friendly smile. “I’m Mack McAsh.”

“What is it?” the man said gruffly. He did not ask Mack to take a seat.

Mack ignored his rudeness: captains were never very polite. “Would you like your ship uncoaled quickly and efficiently tomorrow?” he said pleasantly.

“No.”

Mack was surprised. Had someone got here before him? “Who’s going to do it for you, then?”

“None of your damn business.”

“It certainly is my business; but if you don’t want to tell me, no matter—someone else will.”

“Good day to you, then.”

Mack frowned. He was reluctant to leave without finding out what was wrong. “What the devil is the trouble with you, Captain—have I done something to offend you?”

“I’ve nothing more to say to you, young man, and you’ll oblige me by taking your leave.”

Mack had a bad feeling about this but he could not think of anything else to say, so he left. Ships’ captains were a notoriously bad-tempered lot—perhaps because they were away from their wives so much.

He looked along the river. Another new ship, Whitehaven Jack, was anchored next to the Prince. Her crew were still furling sails and winding ropes into neat coils on the deck. Mack decided to try her next, and got his boatman to take him there.

He found the captain on the poop deck with a young gentleman in sword and wig. He greeted them with the relaxed courtesy which, he had found, was the fastest way to win people’s confidence. “Captain, sir, good day to you both.”