Concerning Matters of Illustrious Genealogy!

“The Greek Historian Dion, observed that when Caractacus was shown the public buildings of Rome, his reaction was to ask why a people of such magnificence should envy him his British tent!”

“Perhaps they were poor?”

“My dear Montaperti, poverty isn’t only about empty pockets! Though I agree, poverty can result in the leading of a life that is culturally meaner”

Lord Elderberry is at lunch in the Tompion Room, the room is named after a Bedfordshire tradesman, who fashioned intricate timepieces for the new scientists of the Royal Society, and who grew rich thereby.

She (Lady Hesketh-Elderberry) named her tea room after a tradesman, in fact she has named nearly every room in the house after tradesmen. It irks him that she has done this, that having blemished the family name with her excessive philanthropy, it should have been tarnished further by the naming of every room in the house after members of the trade class. By now he thinks, she will be chained to a bed on some ward for imbeciles at St Bacchanalia, the thought gives him some satisfaction.

“Is that a Knifton?” Lord Montaperti has risen from his seat and now he tours this eccentrically named room and espies a seventeenth century brass lantern clock of an age and make he admires.

“A what?” Lord Elderberry has not had time to price all of his aunt’s gee-gaws,

“A Thomas Knifton, see the verge escapement has a circular balance, but without a balance spring under the bell. The gentleman who made this exquisite piece worked for the reputable Cross Keys Watchmakers in Kent”

He lifts the lantern clock up as delicately as he would a piece of lace, so that Lord Elderberry may take a closer look, but his lordship waves it away, he has little interest in aught but its value on the auction block.

Clocks! This particular room is full of them! Several are ranged on the mantle-pieces which grace either end of the long room, a Charles Gretton Grandfather Clock stands by the maplewood door and all the walls are ornamented with a variety of watches invented by the Dutchman Froumanteel.

“Here are enough English watches to grace a thousand public buildings and this piece” Lord Montaperti restores it to its perch carefully, “Is priceless! Why to be in ownership of a piece such as this, an emblem of the true greatness of British craftsmanship, t’is beyond my imagining!”

“T’is not beyond my auctioning” replied Lord Elderberry whose mountainous debts were well known. “Do Whitehursts and Finnemore auction clocks? I feel certain they do”

Lord Montaperti took note of his young friend’s intentions and inclined himself to visit the auction rooms of Whitehurst & Finnemore once he was certain Lord Elderberry had indeed sold the clocks.

Lord Montaperti notes several other clocks besides the Knifton which have taken his fancy, several other timepieces that will join the vast menagerie of materialist wealth that he chooses to refer to as his ‘town house’. A banker by name, an unscrupulous businessman by any other, t’was he who brokered the sale of British arms to the Russians during the Crimean war, Russia fought valiantly and viciously against the British and won. But this did not deter Lord Montaperti, for one t’was not he who had signed the contracts of manufacture, and though the British sought to put him on trial for high treason, he was so woven into the imperial economy that his execution would have led to the downfall of the government,which went on to fall anyway!

“I am told that Lady Hesketh-Elderberry is not herself?” said he slyly, for t’was known that she had been committed to St Bacchanalia’s,

“I extend my condolences” he added, noting the look of discomfort on Lord Elderberry’s face and enjoying it richly, “Now onto business!”

The discussion of money whilst one is consuming Lobster Salad in a room such as this, would be considered lacking in delicacy, but by what means may one go on consuming Lobster Salads?

“I have a proposition for you” Lord Montaperti said blandly,

“Oh yes?”

“One which may serve your interests or not”

Lord Elderberry is intrigued, when it comes to the matter of making money he frequently is,

“Go on”

“You will appreciate that I am a man of business, and that as a man of business, I lack the pressing delicacy that must oft accompany these matters. You will therefore take this into account as I touch on matters which might otherwise merely concern you, such as the Hesketh Elderberry Genealogy.”

Lord Elderberry is perplexed, he was conceived, he was born, what more to the matter can there be?

“You have an uncle”

“Have I?”

“Your Aunt’s twin” continues Lord Montaperti, noting the dawning horror on the face of Lord Elderberry with thoughtful pleasure,

“A twin?!”

“Yes, her older brother who would, had he not turned loon, have inherited all your aunt has inherited. This gentleman has taken his leave of St Bacchanalia’s, he has escaped”

“Escaped?!”

“Indeed, please bear in mind that this is a business interest I relate to you, your uncle had a trust in perpetuity held by Polders and when they fell into bankruptcy the responsibility passed to me”

“To you?”

“Me, I had assumed that in time arrangements might be made to have it pass to you but, there is a complication”

“A complication?” Lord Elderberry looks first bewildered and then perplexed,

“A very little one, before the trust can pass to you, it must be signed over by Lord Wilberforce Hesketh-Elderberry”

“But he’s a fugitive from the law!”

Lord Montaperti chuckled, “ His committal to the lunatic’s asylum was most discretely handled, one cannot say the same about his escape!”

“But he’s a criminal!”

“Not that I am aware of, although I must own that he has a most singular disposition and I doubt that St Bacchanalia’s would care to admit that they have been so remiss as to lose one of their charges”

“From all I’ve heard of the Dowager (God bless her soul! ) she will not have committed him without just cause!”

“Quite so, I am told that several most unusual murders were committed in St Giles”

“Unusual?”

“The victims were murdered and then stuffed!”

“Stuffed?!”

“Taxidermy” replied Lord Montaperti looking unperturbed,”Your uncle was an avid taxidermist!”

Lord Montaperti examines his pocket watch most closely, fashioned by Estienne Hubert from 48 carat gold, encrusted with emeralds, diamonds and rubies. It is an exquisitely expensive timepiece, in reckless bad taste.

“That aside, Lord Wilberforce is worth a million pounds and most importantly, he is a bachelor.”

“A batchelor? But what of my aunt’s two million? How am I to have access to that if he is still alive?”

“You shan’t whilst he lives, but he shan’t live long” replied Lord Montaperti with an inscrutable look on his face.

Observe the delicate hands and those tapered fingers folded calmly upon his lap, those piercing eyes so dark as to be almost black, absorbing all radiance, all light, and exuding none. Observe the cold calm regal face and the scarlet slash of a mouth, for here reclines a man bred with no philanthropic notions, and no inclinations towards mercy where those who are deficient in genes (or merely impoverished) are concerned. Behold the majestic product of generations upon generations of flawless aristocratic evolution!

“Shan’t he live long? Why on earth not?” Lord Elderberry an innocent abroad? He who had his own aunt, she who had nurtured and nourished him from birth trussed up like a turkey and committed? He a babe in the dark arts? His pale milk weed complexion and sly green eyes denote the demeanour of one who, once nourished affectionately in one’s bosom, is apt to lunge and bite too swiftly.

“I? Stoop to murder? Am I who have risen so high to sink so low?”

“Murder? Nonsense! T’would taint your bloodline! The Goveen Brotherhood will take care of it!” 

You Can’t Fight Tammany Hall!

So screwen cold was it that Thomas Warne wondered what compelled him to marshall his men, and head down to the docks in the company of Allan Pinkerton. So cold was the air that the merest breeze seemed to rake his flesh and seep into his bones, yet he also felt mildly feverish and this discomfiting state of affairs left him feeling humiliated. That and the way his heart beat seventeen to the dozen as they neared the docks (skipping a beat as he espied the Resurgam, moored within the harbour). He felt shamed for here he was, about to ride in to the rescue of a woman who clearly didn’t need no rescuing! For a battle encounter with Kitty Grid-Iron was the equivalent of being tied to a ships hull and keel-hauled. If you were a border ruffian you hoped to survive the collision with life if not limb intact. But if you were a secessionist, unless might hisself – accompanied by a Gatling gun and several pistols -was on your side, survival was a tenuous option. The woman was thought by some to be the very devil when it came to meting out northern justice! For all that he loved her and would gladly have laid his life down for her, if she had ever asked!

“Tread carefully gentleman” warned Pinkerton, “Have your pistols at the ready, but we aren’t aiming for discord, there’s only watchmen and constables around this early in the day, and mayhap we will get our business done without so much as a shot being fired”

“Mayhap” murmured one Cletis Halliday under his breath,

“Then again maybe not” replied another. t’is all one to the men riding alongside him, who are so at ease that one could be forgiven for thinking that they meant no harm. Not so, for unlike Allan Pinkerton they harbour no slumbering moral sense, at the first sign of trouble they will draw and fire and the devil take the one who gets in their way! T’is the way of New York Harbour, where the constables and watchmen are allowed to steal all they can from those who won’t pay the Tammany Hall ‘tax’, and where those businessmen who try to take their ship’s cargo entire, are liable to wind up floating in the bay with a bullet in their backs, courtesy of the Tammany ‘taxmen’. As a consequence, Thomas Warne rode with his men when conducting business at the docks, and in that way he avoided the harsh bribes and most of the violence. As they continued to make their progress slowly along the harbour they perceived a wagon waiting to one side of the Resurgam and two burly men staggering under the weight of a carpet bag. This weighty encumbrance seemed to have taken on a life of it’s own, for it writhed and buckled as if for all the world there were a human being contained therein. At one point the men saw fit to drop the carpet bag heavily upon the dock, before picking it up once more and loading it into the back of the wagon. Thomas Warne and Allan Pinkerton looked at each other and then towards the two men who, muttering many salty curses, clambered into the back of the wagon.

“Is that the good English Lord they have bundled into that carpet bag?” asked Thomas Warne smiling grimly Pinkerton nodded,

“None other, though he may parade himself like an Englishman, and dress like an Englishman, he is most emphatically Irish, and it is as an Irishman remiss in his duties to his fellow Irishmen, that he shall be summarily tried (by his own people naturally), and either set free or executed!”

Soon two other figures appeared, one dark and slender, and the other dressed as becomes a New York gentlewoman, except that Thomas knew her skirts were artfully split to the waist so that she could run at a tilt, kneel, and fire several volleys off a rifle. Climbing aboard the front of the wagon and grabbing the reins they sought to leave the docks, but as if from nowhere men emerged one of whom took hold of the reins staying the horses progress.

“Remember what I said! No shooting less’n there’s a need!”

In no time at all they reached the Tammany thugs who, perceiving that there was nought but a woman and a ‘nigrah’ in the wagon, mistook Kitty for a blowen and were even now in the progress of trying to elicit a ‘tax’ from her ill-gotten gains.

“Gentlemen, I’ve no wish to interfere with your commerce, but this lady is under my charge, if you would be so kind?” the two ‘gentlemen’ cock their heads, narrow their eyes and reach for their pistols. In turn Thomas Warne’s men sliding nimbly off their stallions, cock their pistol hammers back and get ready to fire. The Tammany ‘taxmen’ look confused, nay offended, to shoot a businessman who won’t pay his taxes is permissible, but to be shot at? T’is the height of bad manners!

“Ain’t a man uses these docks don’t pay for the use!” they wail piteously,the vicious glare they cast at Kitty says more than words will tell,

“Till now” hissed Alan Pinkerton aiming his peacemaker at the thugs,”Step away from the wagon if you please sirs, farther thank you!”

Snatching the reins back Kitty jerks hard on them, driving her wagon out of there with all speed. With mounting rage the thwarted thugs aim to wound at least one of the malefactors and cause them to fall beneath the hooves of their horses. But as they cock their pistols at the ready, aim, and get ready to fire, they hear another click, and this one sounds altogether different from their own. T’is Methuselah O’Houlihan displaying his usual lack of grace toward Boss Tweed’s men.

“Make one more motion and I’ll put a hole in you so big they’ll have to pack your corpse with dirt before they bury it, now git!” one look in those rattle snake eyes is the end of all argument, they swiftly make their exit!

Web To Weave Corn To Grind

Oh the grandeur and the picturesque charm of stormy waters, till one is caught in them! Having rustled through the cloven seas, having flirted with near oblivion, the Resurgam now lies safely harboured. The ship’s captain has resolved to have her seaworthy by the end of the week if he possibly can. He dare not stay there longer, for his orders are to surrender his illicit cargo and then to re-join Commander Fox and the SS Baltic which is bound for South Carolina.

“How we gonna get that lunatic off this ship without the whole damn yard knowing? I purpose that we off load him tonight, once the coast is clear” too much sleep has fled Kitty’s eyes this past week, the whole mission seems cursed and she cannot wait to be rid of the man she used to call husband.

”Men full of more brawl than you have been press ganged on these docks, wait till the morrow. You’ll find a way then, for sure” Nathaniel Keeler-Breeze watches her march back and forth restlessly and wonders why she doesn’t simply shoot the English gentleman, after all there are far more pressing matters.

A civil war is looming, as it undoubtedly had been since Lincoln the ‘nigger-lover’ had been elected president. The woman was a crack shot with any rifle you cared to hand her and had been an excellent spy, in his opinion abducting the puerile Englishman had been a waste of her time, she should have been left down south, putting the devil to them secessionists!

“Did you see the way they eyed us as we anchored?” Nathaniel shrugged, for it was known that the ‘Tammany Tiger’ ruled these docks. Still, even the Tammany beast could be made to roll over on its back and purr, if one knew how!

“I saw it, now get some sleep”

The ship lies silent as the grave (or a harpooned whale) and the crew are as the dead, the result of generous amounts of rum, mingled with physical exhaustion, that and a desperate desire to escape the sporadic sobs of Tobias Grid-Iron. Why, even a trans-atlantic mouse has paused momentarily in its hunt for food, to observe the wonder of an aristocrat weeping, over an inconsequential part of God’s creation!

Down in the hold, midst the remaining crates of sea biscuits and Rum, Francis stands guard, keeping an eye out for any river rats or dock thieves who might come upon the ship unawares. He is not alone, the Hindu Fakirs stand guard with him, so fond have they become of their Sudanese friend, who like the hunter he has been from his youth, walks alert and unblinking in the dark.

“You were a hunter yes?” Navendra has wondered about this since it seems clear to him that Francis is a gentle and proper man, a most fastidious gentleman in matters of retribution but hardly bloodthirsty.

“Yes, I was a hunter”

“But why hunt?”

“ My master (Sultan Sidi Mehemet Ibrahim) was a devout Muslim and also a hunter of great repute, at ten years of age I attended him. On one of his most esteemed hunts I was one of ten runners dotted across the forests of Nederhiwi”

“Why would a hunter require runners?” Francis smiled gravely,

“To lure out his prey…jaguars…sleek and able to move with such fluid grace and speed that to hesitate but for a moment was to assure one’s own entrance to Janna! I was careful and I was fast, so I survived, many others didn’t. When I was twelve I made my first kill.”

“What did you kill?”

“A beautiful gazelle, slender of carriage and fleet of foot, her name was Nuur Hamdi”

“She sought freedom, the Sultan would not give it and so she fled. I was ranked high amongst the hunters so he sent me after her, through the jungles of the Nederhiwi. She was the first person I killed, but not the last.”

“Oh” the Fakirs are horrified by his casual admission, to have slaughtered another enslaved human being? The consequences for his karma must have been disastrous!

“ I thought if I served Mehemet Ibrahim loyally, Allah might be kind to me. But one day an important man invited his Royal Highness to Alabama to give lectures, and I as his most reputed hunter was asked to go with him”

“The Sultan was asked to give a talk? On what?”

“The efficacy of the slave trade, several years before he had been petitioned by a Sufi sect, to end the abominable practice of enslaving Christians. He was reluctant to do so, and since he was both a philosopher and an intellectual he was able to expound convincingly as to why he should not. His arguments were so impressive that Jedidiah Kane Thickett invited him to Alabama to share his beliefs. The Sultan was so flattered to have been presented with such an invitation, that he presented him with one of his most prized possessions”

“Really? And what was it?”

“Me”

The three Indian gentlemen are horrified, a culture that barters human flesh as if it were a lump of gold or of ivory? And to such a one as Jedidiah Kane Thickett? The thought itself makes them shudder, for had they not observed the violent disposition of the man for themselves?

“How did you escape?”

“I was stolen from him by Allan Pinkerton and given a choice, liberty or death! I chose liberty!”

“A most worthy choice!”

“I didn’t think so at the time, in fact I shudder to think of those days of my darkness. Allah has indeed been most kind.”

The gentle lapping of the harbour waters, the intermittent hoot of owls and the hollow cries of harbour watchmen, who for a couple of dollars will turn a blind eye to river rats regardless of what they are supposed to do. These sounds garner the attention of Francis and the Fakirs as they stand guard in companionable silence.

“Liberty or death that is an honourable saying” replies Navendra

“An honourable choice also” remarks Amjal

“Oh villainy of villainies that ever the sultan should have betrayed me thus! To have surrendered me to the most brutal calumnies of one whose depravity knew no bounds! To have left me to drown beneath that vast wave of moral pollution they called slavery! But Allah has been merciful to me, I shall endeavour as best I can to reward the life who redeemed mine and when the time comes I shall take the revenge I have purposed upon!”

“Yours is a terrible, terrible tale, I wonder that in the midst of your trials you did not succumb to lunacy, but as you say the gods are most kind”

“And what of you? How did you survive the massacre of Jhansi?”

In the darkness they tilt their heads one to another as if communing without words, they are silent and the silence is as dense and as comforting as velvet.

“One day my friend, when the thoughts are less painful, perhaps we shall tell”

“Yes” agrees Francis, thinking of the aristocratic dolt below deck, whose cruelty caused their suffering “Perhaps, one day”.

Francis Page

Pilot-Guiding Star-No Compass-Elspeth!

“T’is most unnatural” murmured Caleb Flaherty,

“Indeed” replied Gabriel O’Hara ” Did you note how the winds bearing us to salvation did abate, once that accursed bird was loosed from its cage!”

They both glance uneasily at the albatross now perching upon its master’s chest, and now hopping blithely across the quarter deck. These courageous stalwarts who, have been unmanned by historic dangers, and now suffering a psychological perturbation, have impressed upon their minds that the way of their deliverance lies in the slaughter of that harmless bird.

Are there any seasons which may account for it? For they do say that change of seasons has a notable effect on the social habits of the predicatorial. Which is a shame, for the long, weary, dismal night has passed, day has come, and all (save the unfortunate shantyman) are alive. The Resurgam has fought her way through the raging waters of the Atlantic Ocean and survived! Helmed by a dauntless and valiant captain, a man whose steadfast tenacity at the wheel has helmed all to safety. The ship has swept through shark infested waters , weathered a tumultuous storm, and now limps on towards her final destination. The sea is becalmed so that the Resurgam may be likened to ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean’ so little progress has it made in these waters over the last three days.

The sun sweeps down upon the drowsing crew, cossetting all in her balmy embrace. They are two days away from drowning as the ship continues to take on water and yet they care not! Is it any wonder then, that the two most desperate, most murderous sailors aboard ship, have taken it upon themselves to expedite matters, by falling upon the albatross and slitting its throat? Ah! But freedom will reign inspite of earth and hell! The albatross upon seeing the murderous glint of sharpened steel takes flight, and nestled safely amongst  the main sails, looks with a sharp eye upon its would-be slaughterers, who, howling with thwarted intent , clamber swiftly up the main-mast towards it. But the albatross is not stupid and cawing as loudly as its soft voice will allow it, wakens its master to its plight!

“What ho?” Lord Grid-Iron’s first act upon awakening is to reach for the comforting solace of the albatross, which had been nestled snugly against his breast, but she is gone! What ho! Jumping to his feet and looking up towards the crow’s nest he espies Elspeth and the murderous profligates inching their way towards her , with daggers in hand. Ne te quaesiveris extra! For how can one remain virtuous in the face of such evil? With a deliberate calm borne of mild derangement, Lord Grid-Iron seizes the sleeping Methuselah’s crossbow, takes aim and fires! The arrow sped on its way with startling accuracy, hurtles towards its intended victim. It would have hit its mark, were it not for the sudden tilt in the ships hull causing the ill-starred bird to swerve into the path of the arrow’s trajectory! A pain filled sqwark and the albatross is sent plummeting toward the ship!

“Elspeth!”

How accurately dear reader,can one convey the sheer horror contained within that hollow cry? What heart rending grief lies encapsulated in that word! What good fortune then that a hale and hearty breeze has sprung up, brawling its way through the sails of the ship and nudging her forwards! That as the ship picks up speed one and all spring to life, manning the rigging for all they are worth. None have time to glance upon the piteous sight that is Lord Grid-Iron, indeed none would think to empathise  as he grieves miserably over the jinxed albatross that brought the fog and mist.

Faster and now faster the ‘Resurgam’ moves, flying through the waters as though borne on the wings of destiny. Whipped savagely about by the winds which bluster and billow about her sails the ship glides swiftly along as though the devil himself were at her back.The crew strain to hold her in check but she moves like an unbroken stallion straining at the leash, give her liberty or death! With each pulsing blast the ‘resurgam’ is thrust forth till at length a lone cry arises from the crow’s nest.

“Land ahoy! Land ahoy!” t’is a cry echoed joyously by the crew,

“Land ahoy! Look fast! Look fast! Land ahoy!”

“Look on it! Look on it! We’re almost home!”

“New York Harbour ahead!”

 

 

Pilot-Guiding Star-No Compass- Rocks!

Have any of us the tolerable notion of the depth and skill required to become a ships captain? To know that all eighteen souls-for the Hindoo Fakirs had also taken passage to the Americas-look to you to steer them to safety? With what agility with what skill and speed a captain must do his work and navigate his ship to safety in waters such as these. Even now to see the vessel attempting to steer it’s way towards a wavering sliver of light, even now to cling on for dear life as the iron-clad hull battered itself upon the savage rocks.

“A ha ha ha! You have us at the rattle!” Lord Grid-Iron chortled midst the crazed turmoil of boiling sea foam,

“Will you be quiet? T’is unnatural behaviour when our souls are in peril! Stop it! Will you stop it? Seamus make him stop it!”

“A ha ha ha! We shall all drown!” chortled Lord Grid-Iron his charcoal locks plastered flat against his skull and his watery blue eyes darting to and fro.

“Oh gawd! Gawd save us! Hail Mary……” screeched Gabriel clutching the ropes which tied him to the ship’s main mast. He had slung his mother’s rosary beads around his neck, now he clutched at these tightly and prayed fervently that the storm might abate, and the ship not break apart upon the bestial rocks.

“A ha ha ha!” cried Lord Grid-Iron once more making the hackles rise on the back of Seamus’s neck, for t’was plain that terror had made the Gombeen fiend take leave of his senses!

“Hand me a grapple hook Seamus!” cried Methuselah O’Houlihan, “I’ve a mind to join Captain Keeler-Breeze at the wheel! Sure he’ll need prodigious help saving the Resurgam from certain doom!” as wave upon violent wave breaks across the deck, Methuselah loses himself from the mast and with grappling hook in wizened hands hacks his way across the sodden deck, toward Captain Keeler-Breeze. He arrives not a moment too soon for the poor captain can scarce clasp the wheel in his frozen claws and that look, such a look! As t’would say I teeter on the precipice of desolate surrender! But Methuselah is full of pluck, with several aggressive tugs on the ship’s wheel he has her turned aft towards that broadening shaft of light, so that her hull scrapes hard against the smaller rocks, narrowly averting collision with the worst of them.

“The storm is abating!” cried Methuselah

“But the waters are infested with sharks and the hull may have sprung a leak!” the good captain cried desperately,

“Take heart! We’ll not drown! Helm there!” replied Methuselah with a salty twinkle in his eye “There! Towards that chasm of light! I’ll check what damage is done!”

With grappling hook held aloft the ancient mariner hurls himself length by length across the deck, hammering the hook into its wood and then hauling himself along, in several strides he is back alongside Lord Grid-Iron, who, clutching fiercely to Elspeth the albatross continues to cackle the crew’s impending doom,

“We shall all drown! Drown! I tell you! HA!”

Not for the first time Methuselah O’Houlihan wonders what degree of hatred could possibly have possessed the Molly Maguires, to have abducted such a one as this, bereft of all the good sense that would have made him a decent tenant landlord to his people. But he has not much time to conjecture, for soon he has bypassed the masts and now slipping below deck he spies a dim light toward the helm of the ship and thinks he hears singing.

“Om trayambakam yajaamahe sugandhim pushtivardhanam Urvaarukamiva bandhanaan mrityor muksheeya maamritaat. We worship the three-eyed One.Who is fragrant and Who nourishes well all beings; may He liberate us from death for the sake of immortality even as the cucumber is severed from its bondage”

This exotic song he has heard many a-time, sung above deck by the Hindoo fakirs as they clambered up the ropes and unfurled the sails and as he gets closer to the helm the singing continues gently on, though their voice is joined by another far less gentle and patient.

“Bismillahi! Bail faster! Faster! Hand me those croker sacks!” deftly catching sack upon sack Francis skilfully stuffs the hull breach which has rapidly filled with water, then over the padding he nails several planks of wood, torn off a storage crate of rum.

“T’is done!” he declares

“But she’s still awash!” cried Methuselah

“There’s a larger tear towards the bulkhead!That will take some repairing, come with me!”

Murky dank and cold like an underwater tomb, the ship tilts abruptly to one side and Methuselah and Francis with it, but they abruptly steady themselves against the hull and continue on, sloshing their way through the briny overflow towards the back of the ship. There is the oddest contrast between this ancient stalwart of the sea and this sombre lithesome land lugging warrior, whose dextrous skills swiftly heal the breach in the ship’s side. Plugging it with with croker sacks and several planks of wood from the abundance of rum crates (whose contents he has, sadly, tossed overboard eager to thwart the desire of the crew to immerse themselves in befuddled depravities and at such a time as this!) stored below deck.

“Will she hold do you think?”

Francis shrugged, “We have been travelling for six weeks, the storm blew us off course costing us four days, it should take us another five days to reach port”

“New York is five days away?”

Francis nodded,”At least, if she springs a leak before then? We drown…..slowly…”

Are there words to describe the stark esteem in which Francis the indefatigable is now held by this worthy old dog of the high seas? Stripped to the waist and rippling with the lithe wiry muscle of a woodsman he has not the air of your average gentleman. So dauntless so valiant in a storm that has shaken many a courageous soul! Methuselah harbours a sneaking suspicion that Francis was not always a Pinkerton agent….

To be continued…..

Pilot-Guiding Star-No Compass-Shark!

A handsome stalwart native of the Americas and a skilled mariner, since first he fell out of his mother’s apron and onto the Eliza Battle, the estimable captain is thunderstruck! Was not the Mary Celeste his first command? Had he not survived all the dangers and privations of service aboard the Pilgrim, that privateering brig owned by Master Cabot? The captain cannot account therefore, for the grim sense of foreboding that grips him like a shroud as this glistening apparition, this shark, bears down upon his vessel. At times the monstrous, glistening beast lies hid beneath the raging waters, but it is soon upon them and as it nears port-side it swerves, and with an agile flick of it’s tail surges upwards out of the water, and arches itself sideways towards the main sail mast.

Are there any words to describe the terrible sight of those gaping jaws embedded with sharp bone-white teeth? I think not!

“Cover your eyes Kitty! Don’t look!”

Drawing his sou’wester violently over her face he turns her roughly in towards his manly shoulders. Alas dear reader that there could be no protecting of this worthy mistress of the high seas from the Shanty-man’s singing as it was most violently interrupted by his terror-filled shrieks! Thunder crackled overhead, lightning struck the ironclad ship dousing it in ethereal light and t’was plain to see the horror which had transpired then!

“And it’s ho! Ho! Aaargh! Get away! Get awa-aargh!”

To have survived several ship wrecks and kidnappings midst these treacherous waters is no mean feat. Alas, then, for man-eating loan sharks! With a final garbled cry of “Help me! Aaaaargh!” with a brief, flailing about of one pale limb, the poor shantyman was gone! Swallowed whole by that terrible beast who like that terrible terrible beast of sea lore, the leviathan, swiftly disappeared beneath the foaming waves. Captain Keeler-Breeze silently threw up a prayer to that patron saint of monks travelling the high seas, St Brendan (it couldn’t hurt now could it?).

“Now he has the taste of man-flesh in his jaws he’ll be back, t’is little doubt of it!” looking up towards the crow’s nest he espied a lithe figure nimbly sliding down the main mast and headed below deck. T’was the valiant Francis Page gone to call the rest of the crew to battle no doubt!

“Kitty! Uncover the Gatling Gun! Quickly! We won’t have long to wait!”

Apprehending in that instant that God had opened a way through which impending death might be averted, Kitty slid swiftly towards the main deck clasping a grapple hook in her gloved hand. She had barely reached the Gatling Gun when a shard of lightning hit the main mast once more sending shards of it crashing towards the deck. Tearing desperately at the oil skin which covered the gun, she heaved it slowly around to face the ship’s port-side. Lassoing  herself to the gun’s base she gripped the gun firmly by the barrel and the trigger and steeled herself for the shark’s next attack. Like a ‘tossed shuttlecock to the blast’ the ship reeled  back and forth midst the churning waters and t’was all Kitty Grid-Iron could do to cling grimly on to the gun.

“I won’t go I tell you! Noooooo! Nooo! I won’t!”

“Oh but you will!”

“Let me go back to Elspeth! I tell you I won’t do it! I won’t!”

“Ah but you will!” hissed Seamus Geraghty his fierce green eyes were fastened intently on the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, whose pale blue eyes were awash with tears as Seamus grimly thrust a whaling harpoon into his limp, wet palms.

” You’ll do as you’re bid, if you ever wish to see land again! On deck wid ye! Ye Gombeen fiend!”

At this point it must be said dear reader, that though there is much to distinguish the predatory human being from a lone shark, in terms of mindset their natures are one and the same. For, having achieved his nefarious aim (the devouring of human flesh) and that without punitive consequence, the shark returned once more and he came not alone. O! The follies of venturing abroad on the high seas without knowledge of the dangers that may befall thee! Oh! It has grown most bitter, cold and dark with naught but the ethereal sliver of light, which only does aid the good captain in his journey toward home.

“Shark! Shark! Men to the port-side! Steady your positions! Hold yer course! Shark!”

Whale-spade in hand Seamus Geraghty clambers swiftly aboard port-side in time to meet the fierce onslaught of the shark whose sharp teeth,gruesome close up, bear the adorning fragments of the Shanty-man’s remains.

“I’ll have at ye, ye fiend! You’ll ne’er get the better of us! Come ahead damn ye! Come ahead!”

With a ferocious yelp, such as would chill the marrow of any seaman, he sprang upon the beast spade in hand beating it savagely about the head.

“Have at ye! Ye accursed lone shark!”

Is there anything more brutal than a crew of desperate men drawn on to passionately embrace their leaders cause? For lashed by fierce winds and rains the ship’s crew clamber up and over the ships hull, leaping upon shark after shark with such ferocity that  the waters below the ship churn and foam with the shoal’s swift retreat. Such bravery dear reader? Such brutality! The likes of which will be spied many a time ere this arduous adventure is concluded!

And yet, has this particular instance of courageousness been all in vain? For as Seamus’s men clamber back on deck (offering up a swift prayer of thanks to St Gertrude of Nivelles, patron saint of St Bethel’s Asylum, as well as sailors), the bloodied lone shark attempts another surprise onslaught! Hurrah, then, for Kitty Grid-Iron who flinging herself urgently over the Gatling gun pulls hard on the trigger and it seems as if the very fires of hell issue forth from its revolving barrels! With a piercing shriek the devilish fish falls, plummeting back into the waters and disappearing. Peace at last descends, but there is worse to come.

“Rocks ahead!” cries Lord Grid-Iron albatross in hand, “Abandon ship!”

“Ye will not! Ye will stay and face justice!” growls Seamus Geraghty wondering how amidst all the fracas, he had managed to  return below deck, and retrieve the accursed albatross. Nevertheless as the stormy seas continue to break in very fast, all can perceive the truth of his utterances and fastening ropes about themselves and the mid and main-masts, the ship’s crew braces itself against the impending violent collision.

“Tally-Ho! cries Lord Grid-Iron wriggling like an eel beneath Geraghty’s fierce embrace “We’re doomed!”

to be continued…..

Of Explosives Strong Enough to Wreck The Throne

The most ignoble army ever to sally forth from the shores of England has found itself a home. Driven abroad by lethargic indifference to their plight, tossed like fetid refuse upon America’s shores, they have at last found safe harbour. Ushered reluctantly through the golden gates of ‘ole New York’ they have found grudging solace in the only refuge afforded them, that bustling, crumbling, begrimed sanctuary, the sixth ward. Put far away from the well paved streets and gas lit walkways of wealthy Upper Manhattan socialites; they tenant unsanitary conditions, poorly ventilated, and prone to occasional outbreaks of Cholera. As well they might! Having brought neither wealth nor social standing to the banqueting tables of enterprise. A strange and inverted world this is, where the same poverty that  reduced Irish farmers to penury can, in this place, and at this time, excite in them a thrilling degree of cunning, propelling some to fame and wealth, and others to infamy….and wealth!

Take Thomas Warne, he whose travels to Calcutta and the Indies came to be most thrillingly reported in the Morning Courier. Orphaned at the tender age of ten, he enlisted upon a packet boat bound for China, and having the good fortune to be abducted by an elderly pirate from Canton, turned ‘privateer’ at the age of twelve. With the money made from his share of ‘privateering’ he purchased his first ship, traversing the waters of China, Cuba, and the Indies. Till at length he was able to set up shop in Manhattan, leaving the running of his ships to others. T’was rumoured that Mr Warne had once been a near-starved Irish emigrant, t’is even said that he sat by his da’s withered corpse for nigh on five days ere he was found. These days who may tell? At thirty he’s as handsome a man as any in New York, one worth $100,000, and the world is his oyster!

To look upon the corpse of a man as one would do a dog is a gift few have been cursed with. Isaiah Wynders is such a one, a Tammany man from the crooked shine of his hob nailed boots, to the brilliantined wave in his jet black hair. Look upon that snaggle-toothed alligator smile ye ladies and despair! If ever a fiend bound for hell were clad in mortal flesh, t’is he! A river boat rat, a gambler, a hard eyed filleter of reckless men, a purveyor of favours and champion of the common man! You doubt me dear reader? Then look upon ole Mother Connor as she clambers gamely out of her rocking chair doffing her bonnet with a shrill,

“God save ye Mr Wynders!” and Mr Wynders halting briefly in his journey turns aside to clasp the frail old widow’s hands and enquire as to how

“Frances is keeping and how the trade suits him?” whereupon Widow Connor’s dull eyes brim with grateful tears,

“The trade suits him jes fine your grace” says she, and with a tremulous shake of his hand she resumes her seat by the front door and he passes on.

“Bless me if it ain’t Mr Wynders!”

This time it is Mrs O’Shea-baby at her hip-who halts his turn into Shadder Avenue, asking after his health and thanking him for the good turn he done her husband (now a docker), and her son (an apprentice carpenter). And so it continues from one avenue to the next, with much tugging of forelocks, shaking of hands and partaking of blessings. Indeed he is so burdened with gratitude and thanks, t’would seem that the path to perdition lies blocked and the gates of heaven beckon, were it not for the iniquitous lure of King Cotton. The virile life’s blood of the southern states, it sparkles and glistens like white gold on New York’s docks. White gold that may only be stored by Tammany porters and packed by Tammany dock men, upon ships which may only dock with the tacit approval of the harbour commissioners-Tammany men everyone. And now t’would seem (through no fault of his!) as though the lucrative flow of commerce-and bribes- were to be put in serious jeopardy.

“Have they shot Lincoln yet?”

“Nope, he got through Virginia in one piece,  Maryland too”

“He took Pinkerton agents with him?”

“Ten of em, toting Winchester rifles and packing Colt pistols or so I am tole! The south can be a bottomless terror for them that don’t love er!”

“They mean’t to take him in Baltimore?”

“They failed, for better or worse he’s president now!”

“Has the world gone mad? There wasn’t a working man in alla New York didn’t vote Democrat! I saw to it!”

Isaiah Winders smiled, “There is no denying the service that Tammany has rendered New York. There is no other organization for taking hold of untrained, friendless men and converting them into citizens. Who else in the city would do it? For all that, somebody voted us a Republican president, and now? Half the Southern states have seceded!”

Boss Tweed chuckled, he puffed ruminatively on his cigar for the longest time, then he chuckled some more,

“Where’s Michael Houlihan?” he asked stretching forth a beringed hand that the fearful miner might kiss it,

“Yer Grace!” murmured the man holding the Tammany society ring to his lips as if Boss Tweed were the Pope himself (heaven forfend!). Boss Tweed winked at Isaiah Winders who sizing up the shabby little coal miner wondered what use he could possibly be to the Tammany cause. He did not have to wonder long,

“Just look at him! Ain’t it just good to look at him! Here stands the reason why come hell or tarnation no Republican president will ever defeat the will of the people! Take a seat Mr Houlihan!”

Michael Houlihan sat. Boss Tweed beamed and though the smile should have warmed the very innards of Michael Houlihan’s soul it had the opposite effect. For who had not heard of Tammany Hall? The tiger of the five boroughs devouring all who stood in its path, including him if he wasn’t careful. He shouldn’t have taken that job at ‘The Silver Slipper’ nor the ‘gift’ of 50 dollars but taken he had,now there was the very devil to pay for it.

“Tell Mr Winders what you have told me” and so with a heavy sigh Michael spoke, of an iron clad ship, a brace of  vengeful Molly Maguires, two Pinkerton agents and their scandal drenched cargo, the exiled Lord Grid-Iron. Blushing furiously with shame he recounted the manner in which the English aristocrat had been abducted, and of his intended destination, the coal fields of Oklahoma. Boss Tweed looked across at Isaiah Winders whose face was strained with incredulity,

“The abduction of an English minister of the state? He’s lying!”. But Boss Tweed shook his head,

“I telegraphed London two weeks ago, Lord Grid-Iron is missing, believed dead. Just imagine how grateful the English would be if we were to return him…for a price.That iron-clad ship set off from Liverpool harbour over a month ago, it should arrive any day now and when it does? I want you and your men ready and waiting!”

A Jaunt To St Pauls

 

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It is a truth seldom acknowledged that the rich are just as much addicted to crime as the poor. In fact dear reader, one may go so far as to suggest that savage tribes living a primitive existence, present a far more edifying spectacle of respect for person and property, than some of the most cultivated aristocrats in Europe. Take for example, Lord Grid-Iron, Earl of West Peepyshire, Knight of the Purple Garter and Chancellor of the Exchequer. A third generation descendant of General Gordon Grid-Iron of Um Bongo Bongo, it is inconceivable that he should prove anything other than a patriarch and a patriot. Inconceivable! Alas dear reader that this should be the mooted truth, that he, a patriarch of empire and bastion of the countries finances, might be guilty of high treason! High treason! Alas! For the term speaks of conspiracies in the dead of night, of murderous plots effected in murky shadows, of inscrutable wickedness bent solely towards malevolent intent. The destruction of the British Empire and our queen with it!

“How long have you known?”

“That Lord Grid-Iron has been engaging in financial congress with the Russians? I shall have proof of it, once Inspector Depta arrives”

“Inspector Depta? What the devil does Depta have to do with it?”

“The information came through one of his informants, a Mrs Hayes I believe”

“Mrs Hayes? But isn’t she a blowen?”

“Quite so” replies Lord Palmerston examining some invisible stain on his gloves, “I am told that Lord Grid-Iron visits her often and that during the course of several of his…visits he has spoken of his financial arrangements with the Russians”

“With the Russians?!”

“It would seem that he has been supplying them with guns and munitions to the hurt of our cause in the Crimea, Prime Minister”

“But that’s unconscionable! For how long?”

Lord Palmerston is silent, which suggests to Prime Minister Aberdeen that he can’t know the extent of Lord Grid-Iron’s treachery. T’is often said that crime is but the offspring of poor breeding or degenerative disease, but Lord Grid-Iron’s criminality has been more the result of  errant stupidity. Why the queen herself had expressed outrage at the very notion of Lord Grid-Iron running the economy, she had even gone so far as to proffer her Hindu Munshi as a replacement, but the Prime Minister would have none of it.

“The role of Chancellor of the Exchequer has been held by three generations of the Grid-Iron family, not to appoint him would be an insult!”

“Then insult him!” cried the queen trembling with indignation,”But pray, do not place him in charge of the nation’s purse! The man is an imbecile! I should know, he’s my sixth cousin!”. The Prime Minister disagreeing with his queen, raised one firm eyebrow, gracefully bowed his head and hastily withdrew from her majesty’s presence. Alas, that Lord Aberdeen had not abided by her majesty’s judgement! For here they now sat, debating the potential fall of a Whig government .

“As to law” Lord Palmerston continued,”The charge is obvious, high treason but the question is this, could this government countenance the scandal?”

“It could not! As well you know! But what choice have we in the matter? The man has sullied his honour and betrayed our great empire! What other outcome could there possibly be?”

“His disappearance could be discretely ordered and just as discretely arranged, but that would also give rise to a charge of high treason. An undesirable state of affairs, most undesirable, unless” and here Lord Palmerston coughed discretely into his scented handkerchief.

“Unless?” asked Lord Aberdeen a look of desperate irritation upon his face,

“Unless….ah! Inspector Depta! But what time call you this?!”

“Pardoning your lor’ship such time as I could make, given the vicissitudes of St Giles!” Inspector Depta jerked his thumb towards a pew at the rear of the cathedral and in which he had deposited a dishevelled heap of a man. “Up at the crack of dawn an ain’t had a moments peace since…what with one thing….and another” he eyed Lord Aberdeen surreptitiously,”Take Mrs Hayes for instance, running an owse of most ill-repute! Terrible it was in there! Terrible! We’ve ‘ad er in custody since the crack of dawn!”

Coughing politely Lord Palmerston asked,”But what of her clientele?”

“Very polite considerin, middle class gents solely! T’was too early in the morn for the other sort! ”

“The other sort?”

“Upper class gents, here’s my report!” dipping his bear like paw into a pocket inside his coat he pulled out a scroll tied with pink ribbon, this he handed directly to Lord Palmerston who in turn handed it to Lord Aberdeen. A glance passed then between the inspector of the Bow Street force and Lord Palmerston who had perused the ‘report’ a week earlier. Indeed the instant his eyes had fallen upon that foul parchment, he had come to the conclusion that Lord Grid-Iron must be done away with, but how to carry it out? No peer of the realm would contemplate being complicit in an act that could lead to their being hung, drawn and quartered!

“Oh god, oh dear god, oh dear god…” Prime Minister Aberdeen paled visibly as his eyes roved over the report, till at length he thrust it from him and leaping to his feet cried out,”Great god! How could he? Such heinous treachery! How could he?!”

“Indeed” demurred Lord Palmerston his eyes twinkling with a mirth no one else in that cathedral dared share,

“Now the question is, what are we to do about this?”

“Is he still married?” Prime Minister Aberdeen asked, his face hardening by degrees,

“To the American? Of course he is!”

“Then there really isn’t a problem, is there?” he narrowed his eyes,” We have a ‘package’ that needs dispatching, Inspector Depta?”

Stifling a grin the Inspector inclined his head,”M’lord!”

“You have worked with Pinkerton detectives in the past have you not?”

“Yes M’Lord!”

“We require you to work with them again as per the abduction and discrete removal of Lord Grid-Iron. The crown requires that you call on them with all speed!”

“A Pinkerton yer Lordship? In England?!”

Lord Palmerston smiled, “As a rule this Pinkerton goes by the nomenclature of Mrs Kitty Warne”

“Bloody hell! Er!” exclaimed the Inspector his eyes twinkling with merriment, “With pleasure yer Lordship, but pray, what is the address?”

“Sloane Square, Grid-Iron Mansions she is the wife of Lord Grid-Iron!”

Of Triumphant Emancipation From Waged Slavery!

Of all the righteous deeds that ever took place beneath the sun this was the best, of all the pleasures that from justice should ever transpire this was the most enduring.  To see now the gates to Newgate Prison opening slowly and the prisoners both dazed and bemused stumbling forth. T’is a clear, cold, day my friends and one as will be etched in the memories of those who reluctantly did the liberating for some time to come. To have made reparations for a great social wrong and to have been made to do it, for fear of blossoming scandal! Why, even the bells of St Sepulchre ring out exultant over this triumph!

Look there my brothers and sisters look there! T’is the Union Rep! Valiant yet shrewd, heroic and yet longsuffering! Borne away upon the bowed shoulders of the silk mill workers, they whose reputations once smeared and sunk in calumny, now stand vindicated. An open cart stands a’fore the prison gates and as they place him down in it there he stands, waving his arms aloft and waiting for silence. All necks are stretched eagerly in his direction, all starved faces upturned. So many earnest faces, so many hope filled gazes from those who have braved the workhouse and prison for this victory.

“My Brothers and sisters! I stand before you as a man humbled by your sacrifices! For whilst I have slept comfortably upon a prison bed, many amongst you have braved the charity of Mr Ethelbert-Smythe and his workhouse!”.

Hearing the muttered curses and surveying the scarce hidden rage of the workers the Union Rep smiles inwardly, he continues “Ours has been a great sacrifice, family members transported to the colonies ne’er to be seen again if our masters had their way!”. Here and there loud sobs and howls of rage may be heard and still the Union Rep speaks on,”We have lost much my brothers and sisters, so much and yet in the end, they as called themselves our masters were forced to defeat! The eight hour day is ours my friends! It is ours and with it decent pay!”

“How much?” cries first one soul then another, for though word has reached them all, they will not believe it until he as has led them says it is so.

“Five shillings a piece for every adult, two shillings for every child”. Silence and something worst than silence, a thousand faces struggling betwixt faith and disbelief, five shillings? Five? They glance at each other, they look up at the stolid face of a man who has never yet lied to or misled them. Five shillings? Can it be true? After all this hardship and heartache? To return to work with improved wages and working conditions? Without further transportations or hangings? Can it be so? The adults struggle with this good news, but the children roar exultantly,“Hurrah for the Union Rep! Hurrah Hurrah for the Union Rep!”. And soon their cheers are joined by their mothers and fathers, their aunts and uncles, their brothers and sisters and grandparents, in short all the vast, grimy forest of indigent poor bearing London aloft on its shoulders. “Hurrah for the Union Rep!” the cart makes its way through the crowds that throng it and is soon lost amongst them as it is driven back to that place from whence it came,St Giles.

“Can it be true? Are they indeed freed? It seems but a dream! Would that my brother were here to enjoy this sight!”

Wendy Woodbine tilts her beribboned bonnet at the cart as it passes her, “T’is certainly strange” remarks the young man with her, tilting his hat with one hand, whilst the other, gloved in grey leather, rests upon an elegantly carved cane, “One would think he was royalty!”

Not since the funeral of that venerable fireman Master Braidwood, have such crowds lined the streets and thronged the byways of London. Not since the hanging of Mother Birthe-Rugge has there been such high spirits and good humour. See there calmly marching the chimney sweeps, red scarves tied around their necks, their scarlet banners held aloft for all to see. The music hall entertainers trail behind them, armed with musical insturments and waving their bowler hats in the air, whilst the ladies twirl their skirts and dance to the tune ‘Oh Susannah!’.

All the traders along the way have shut up shop, and now they also line the streets cheering and waving their caps in the air,”Hurrah for the silk mill workers, hurrah, hurrah and down with the rich!”. Hurrah and down with the rich! What a cry to freeze the heart and chill the bones of the aristocracy were it to be taken seriously! But only a few of its members are present and they are wholly disinclined to attend to the brayings of an impoverished mob. See there that glossy black carriage with the Westminster Palace coat of arms emblazoned upon it. But pray who is seated within it? None other than the Prime Minister and Palmerston!

“Is all in order?” asks the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston nods,

”Yes, but there were complications”

“What complications? How hard can it be to make off with a carpet bag?! Don’t tell me its still here! Lord Grid-Iron cannot still be in England!”

“A robbery was attempted by American secessionists and foiled by the Bow Street Police”

“By whom?!” The Prime Minister looks horrified but Lord Palmerston smiles,

“Mr Thickett-Kane whom we now have under arrest, fortuitously Inspector Depta was on hand with his men and so was able to take matters in hand”

“But what would he want with Lord Grid-Iron? Please tell me they shot the ingrate! The carpet bag, where is it now?”

Lord Palmerston pulled out his pocket watch, glancing down at it he said, “At this precise hour he’ll be aboard the Resurgam and on his way to the Americas, I don’t expect we shall ever lay eyes on him again”

“But what if he should think to return?”

“He will already have been apprised of how much the government knows, about his business dealings in the Crimea, t’is an act of high treason he has committed. I feel sure that once he comes to his senses he will consider his imposed exile a mercy!”

“Excellent! Now tell me, how goes our venture in the Crimea?”

One hundred and eighty dead from the failed Light Brigade charge in Balaklava, five hundred dead at the Battle of Inkerman…in fact this ‘venture’ fares not very well at all. Truth be told with statistics as inconvenient as this mounting up like the bodies of the dead, t’is a relief that such as Lord Tennyson exist. “Why such soaring prose as his stirs the patriotic and urges us on to further bravery, for ours is a just cause!” declares the recalcitrant Palmerston. The carriage glides on through the crowds with its politicians deep in discourse and wholly oblivious to the power of the poor that will, in due course, bring about the downfall of the cabinet, if these politicians but knew it!

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Miscreants,Murder & A Member Of That Luckless Tribe

How can one describe that first day of the siege of Newgate? Deepest, darkest, night has stolen over the Newgate in a serene and imperturbable manner. It is a night lit up here and there by the gas lamps carried to and fro by prisoners as they tend to their business in the confines of the gaol. It is a night filled with fierce expectation and for some thick with dread. The cells and wards are empty, for all have spilled forth from the bowels of the prison to man the walls and gates against the enemy without. There is not a prisoner (nor a gaoler), that is not manning some point of exit or entry, against the fierce onslaught of the owners of the means of production! For they have all heard tell of the dreadful consequences of such uprisings, of the hangings and transportations that must surely follow.

Unless, that is, the Union Rep can force the hand of Aberdeen’s government bringing them to a position of negotiation. A dozen bonfires have been lit providing some warmth and light for the men and women clustered around them. The comforting blaze cheers the hearts and lightens the conversations of those who sit cleaning their rifles before the open fires.

“Do you think they will give us what we ask?” whispers Nathaniel to Bart Tobin who shrugs and replies, “Did they do so before? But then what choice do we have? T’is this or  a hanging!”

“They’ll not hang me!” replies Aggie Brandt aggressively twining together two sticks of gelignite, “If you ain’t more careful with them explosives they wont have to!” retorts Nathaniel as she thrusts the bundled sticks of dynamite into her waistband. “I’m waiting for one of those politicians to pass a little closer to them walls so I can drop a tidy parcel of fireworks on em!” she replies.

“Just one tidy parcel?” asks Nathaniel Spate whose eldest son has been transported to New Zealand already, and whose wife and children must now throw themselves on the mercy of the Spitalsfield Workhouse. “And us bound for the long drop already! What’s the point?” muttered another as he wrapped his jacket more tightly about him.

“What’s the point?” exclaims Bart Tobin, “What’s the point? When ye little ones was staggering abowt with nowt but a rotted piece of bloater to eat, did ye ask then what the point was? When you and yours warmed yourselves by a candle whilst the bosses family set all snug and comfy by a roaring fire, did you need to ask then what the point was?”

Nathaniel shook his head in agreement, “Come man! There’s stories amongst us that should make a mill owner cry for shame but they will not! An as should make them politicians negotiate a compromise but they will not!”

“Oh but they will!” replied another, set close by the fire his face covered in bristle and part obscured by shadow, “Or we shall blow their precious Bastille up and mingle our blood with theirs in the doing of it!” and so the talk continued loud and ferocious for a spell before lulling into silence broken only by the sound of weapons being disassembled, cleaned and reassembled. But in the midst of all this industriousness and brooding introspection, there drifted hither and thither two men. Cloaked mostly in shadow, though, from time to time, their earnest faces were lit up by crimson flame, they walked amongst the workers stopping to talk briefly with first this one and then that one. Like ephemeral spirits they appeared to float from the grounds of the prison to its walls, their heads pressed close together. Until at length one of them cried out,”Yes I see it! I have it! Come with me!”.

The eyes of the silk mill workers follow the brisk quick steps of both men with something akin to hope, for it is none other than the Union Rep and an intrepid reporter lately returned from the Crimean War and t’is of this they are talking. “We can have no reason to regret our military losses against such a brutal and savage enemy. The war went hard against our men but they fought valiantly, most valiantly sir! T’is my only regret that as out numbered and out-gunned as we were, we could not carry the day and many brave lives were taken”.

The Union Rep shakes his head grimly and puffing hard on his pipe catches the eye of the newspaper reporter. There is neither humour nor anger in that gaze but it is cool and steady and it makes the intrepid reporter swallow, hard.

“We have talked at length of the strike and the riots and this siege of Newgate prison and yet always, always, you draw our conversation back to the charge of the Light Brigade. Out with it! What has the Crimean War to do with this strike?”

And so the intrepid reporter tells him of his sea voyage on the Resurgam and of his arrival at Sebastopol. He speaks of the pride and valour of war, of the desperate courage of the soldiers as they fought back wave after wave of Russian infantry. “They were like lambs to the slaughter! Done to death by the hissing fire of cannon, struck down by the murderous onslaught of grapeshot and cannister! Oh! They were heroic in battle! But they had not a chance, the Russians were too well equipped with cannon and gun!”. The reporter’s face was expressionless as he stuck his hand inside his shirt and pulled out a little brass gun plate and with it a photograph, these he handed to the Union Rep who stared at them hard in the half light of a camp fire.

Is it possible dear reader to describe the emotions that flitted in rapid succession over the Union Reps face? First, horror that a representative of the crown could be guilty of such heinous treachery. Then disbelief at the very notion of a politician profiting from the deaths of men he himself had helped send to war! Finally, triumphant glee for now he has a winning hand and there will be no more hangings nor transportations! Not after this! “Grid-Iron armaments?! Lord Grid-Iron supplied the cannon and guns the Russians used at the Crimea? Lord Grid-Iron?! But they say the man has gone missing!” he looked sharply at the intrepid reporter,

“Who else knows of this?” the young man blushed with rage, his eyes lit up with a dangerous fire, “Why only the man who put me here in this prison, till I should agree to change my story” the Union Rep smiled grimly, “Let me guess, it was Lord Palmerston? Then we have him at the rattle! If this story gets out it’ll bring the whole government down! Nathaniel Spate & Aggie Brandt to me!”. As if from nowhere the two silk mill workers materialise, weapons at the ready, “Aggie Brandt, I need you to get a message across to Lord Molesworth’s housekeeper! Nathaniel I need you to cut across to James Fitchett and here’s what you are to say”. He divulged his information to these trusted scouts and watched them closely as like him they first displayed horror and then implacable rage.

“But isn’t the prison being guarded?” asked the intrepid reporter, though in truth had he been a member of the under-classes he would have known,” The Bow Street police, the silk mill workers and the prison guards all have one thing in common, they’re all union. Nathaniel and Aggie will pass as easily through their ranks as if they were ghosts in the night!”

The Union Rep puffed on his pipe once more and chuckled for it seemed to him that the sweet smell of liberty was within his members grasp!