A Place Called Freedom (1995)

“I’d like to see McAsh arrested and charged with a capital offense under the Riot Act. But it would have to be plausible: no trumped-up charges or bribed witnesses. There would have to be a real riot, unmistakably led by striking workmen, with firearms used against officers of the Crown, and numerous people killed and injured.”

Jay was confused. Was Armstrong telling the Jamissons to organize such a riot?

His father showed no sign of puzzlement. “You make yourself very clear, Sir Philip.” He looked at Jay. “Do you know where McAsh can be found?”

“No,” he said. Then, seeing the expression of scorn on his father’s face, he added hastily: “But I’m sure I can find out.”

At daybreak Mack woke Cora and made love to her. She had come to bed in the small hours, smelling of tobacco smoke, and he had kissed her and gone back to sleep. Now he was wide awake and she was the sleepy one. Her body was warm and relaxed, her skin soft, her red hair tangled. She wrapped her arms around him loosely and moaned quietly, and at the end she gave a small cry of delight. Then she went back to sleep.

He watched her for a while. Her face was perfect, small and pink and regular. But her way of life troubled him more and more. It seemed hard-hearted to use a child as her accomplice. If he talked to her about it, she got angry and told him that he was guilty too, for he was living here rent free and eating the food she bought with her ill-gotten gains.

He sighed and got up.

Cora’s home was the upstairs floor of a tumbledown building in a coal yard. The yard owner had once lived here, but when he prospered he had moved. Now he used the ground floor as an office and rented the upper floor to Cora.

There were two rooms, a big bed in one and a table and chairs in the other. The bedroom was full of what Cora spent all her money on: clothes. Both Esther and Annie had owned two dresses, one for work and one for Sundays, but Cora had eight or ten different outfits, all in striking colors: yellow, red, bright green and rich brown. She had shoes to match each one, and as many stockings and gloves and handkerchiefs as a fine lady.

He washed his face, dressed quickly and left. A few minutes later he was at Dermot’s house. The family were eating their breakfast porridge. Mack smiled at the children. Every time he used Cora’s “cundum” he wondered if he would have children of his own someday. At times he thought he would like Cora to have his baby; then he remembered how she lived and changed his mind.

Mack refused a bowl of porridge, for he knew they could not spare it Dermot, like Mack, was living off a woman: his wife washed pots in a coffeehouse in the evenings while he took care of the children.

“You’ve got a letter,” Dermot said, and handed Mack a sealed note.

Mack recognized the handwriting. It was almost identical with his own. The letter was from Esther. He felt a stab of guilt. He was supposed to be saving money for her, but he was on strike and penniless.

“Where’s it to be today?” Dermot said. Every day Mack met his lieutenants at a different location.

“The back bar of the Queen’s Head tavern,” Mack replied.

“I’ll spread the word.” Dermot put his hat on and went out.

Mack opened his letter and began to read.

It was fìlli of news. Annie was pregnant, and if the child turned out to be a boy they would call him Mack. For some reason that brought tears to Mack’s eyes. The Jamissons were sinking a new coal pit in High Glen, on the Hallim estate: they had dug fast and Esther would be working there as a bearer within a few days. That news was surprising: Mack had heard Lizzie say she would never allow coal mining in High Glen. The Reverend Mr. York’s wife had taken a fever and died: no shock there, she had always been sickly. And Esther was still determined to leave Heugh as soon as Mack could save the money.

He folded the letter and pocketed it. He must not let anything undermine his determination. He would win the strike, then he would be able to save.

He kissed Dermot’s children and went along to the Queen’s Head.

His men were already arriving, and he got down to business right away.

One-Eye Wilson, a coal heaver who had been sent to check on new ships anchoring in the river, reported two coal carriers arrived on the morning tide. “From Sunderland, both of them,” he said. “I spoke to a sailor who came ashore for bread.”

Mack turned to Charlie Smith. “Go on board the ships and talk to the captains, Charlie. Explain why we’re on strike and ask them to wait patiently. Say we hope the shippers will soon give in and allow the new gangs to uncoal the ships.”

One-Eye interjected: “Why send a nigger? They might listen better to an Englishman.”

“I am an Englishman,” Charlie said indignantly.

Mack said: “Most of these captains were born in the northeast coal field, and Charlie speaks with their accent. Anyway, he’s done this sort of thing before and he’s proved himself a good ambassador.”

“No offense, Charlie,” said One-Eye.