The Darkest Walk of Crime (17 page)

These were not bad people, so
why in God’s name did they have to live in such misery?

The church bells rang joyously,
celebrating the anniversary of the birth of Christ as the Chartist families
exchanged greetings and good wishes. Mendick smiled as for one brief day they
embraced something of the utopia for which they hoped. He could almost sense
the peace that descended on them as he looked around the scattered community.

Here was the church, a symbol of
hope in a land of oppression, and the Christmas tree, green amid the stark
branches of winter. Here were the people, dressed in their threadbare best, and
all around were good wishes and a tangible feeling of friendship. Some families
were already disappearing into their homes, keeping the doors open to allow
their neighbours free access, and the sound of carols sweetened the air.

“Merry Christmas, Chartists,”
Mendick said quietly, “and please God you are all here to see the next.”

“Here comes Josiah!” Eccles
pointed a slender hand to the track which led from Chartertown to the
uncertainties of the outside world. “And he’s coming in style.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs Preston said
quietly. She pushed her son, noisily munching an apple, into her house. “Stay
indoors, John Frost, and keep your sister with you.”

Armstrong’s coach swayed
alarmingly as it creaked along the rutted track. Peter was driving, his
forehead furrowed in concentration, and he halted the horse with an expression
of utter relief. Mud from the wheels spattered onto the ground and the horse
stood, head bowed in the traces, with froth along its flanks and its breath
clouding around its head.

“Here we are, Mr Armstrong.”
Peter's voice matched the relief on his face.

Armstrong disembarked, one hand
holding his red cap to his head and the other placed for balance on the door of
the coach. He wore a smart chesterfield with a velvet collar, but none of the
wives smiled at him.

“Here we are indeed.” He looked
around the settlement as if he had never seen it before, his mouth twisted by
that sinister scar. “Where are the men? Where are the soldiers of the Charter?”

“Celebrating Christmas with
their families, Mr Armstrong,” Mendick said. He could almost feel the spiteful
chill emanating from the man.

“There’ll be time for
celebrating when the fight is won.” Armstrong sounded more smug than angry.
“Get them formed up, man; I’ve brought them something that will transform their
lives forever!”

“But it’s Christmas.” Mendick
tried to gain an extra few minutes more for his men, but he knew that the day
had already changed.

“Tell that to Finality Jack.”
Mendick grunted. Trust a Chartist to use the nickname attached to Lord Russell
ever since he had called the 1832 Reform Act the final solution. Armstrong
frowned.

“Now get them out here, or I
will send Peter to do it for you.”

It took ten minutes to prise the
volunteers away from their wives and children, and Mendick had to close his
mind to the expressions of dismay on so many faces as he paraded them beside
the coach. They stood to attention, each man more erect than his neighbour and
for a moment Mendick was proud of the progress he had made. He could feel the
families gathering behind him, asking questions and wondering why their
Christmas was being disrupted. The sound of sobbing children nearly obscured
the song of a solitary robin.

“They’re coming on.” Armstrong
ignored the disappointed families as he glowered at the volunteers. “They look
fit and healthy.” He raised his eyebrows. “And better fed than before.”

“We did some foraging,” Mendick
admitted. He was unsure how Armstrong would view his independent actions.

“Aye? Be careful. We don’t want
to draw attention to ourselves in any way. Not yet.” Armstrong nudged him with
a sharp elbow. “But we’ve not long to go now. Wait until you see what we have inside
the carriage.” His sudden grin reminded Mendick of a week old corpse, and then
he signalled to Peter, who plunged inside the coach and dragged out a very
familiar crate.

“Do you recognise this?”
Armstrong asked, and for a second Mendick wondered if he had been seen in the
cellar after all, but Armstrong continued with hardly a pause. “I’ll wager that
you do! These crates are exactly the same as those used in the British Army,
and we both know what they contain.” His voice cracked with excitement as he
opened the crate.

“Look at this, boys! Just look
at what I have for you!” Holding up a musket, Armstrong grinned to the men, who
remained in rigid lines as they had been instructed. “This is an India Pattern
Brown Bess, the same as the redcoats use. Come over then, and look!”

While a few of the men surged
forward, most looked for Mendick’s approval before they moved, some to grab a
musket and hold it as if were made of gold, others to glance apologetically at
their wives. Only Mendick saw the shock on the faces of their families; while
training with sticks and staves had made violence seem only theoretical, these
muskets brought home the reality of what might happen. Armstrong might have
brought gifts, but they were not the embodiment of the Christmas spirit.

“
Now
we can overturn the
government,” Preston said, running a calloused hand up the length of the brown
barrel. “
Now
we can bring work and houses and feed the people.
Now
we’ll show these bastards.” He was shaking his head, his eyes moist with
emotion.

As most were, Mendick realised.
He had expected an outpouring of rage, expressions of hatred and the desire to
slaughter, but instead he saw mostly relief, a hope for a better life and a
yearning to get the job finished as soon as possible. Yet again these Chartists
had surprised him, increasing his affection for the men he was training to be
slaughtered. Only two volunteers hung back, one youngster who could not have
been more than seventeen and a balding, middle-aged man who held his musket as
if it were the handle of a plough and clung to the arm of his wife.

“They’re good men, Mr
Armstrong,” Mendick said. “I don’t want them wasted.”

“Wasted?” Armstrong guided him
away from the volunteers as Peter unloaded a box of bayonets and handed them
out. “I can’t tell you too much yet, but I can reveal a little now that you’ve
proved yourself. Peter says that you have been very dedicated, training the men
hard, and not only in simple drills but in skirmishing and foraging too.”

“Of course.” Mendick resolved to
let Peter win their next few card games, at the very least. “These muskets are
impressive, Mr Armstrong; they appear to be quality weapons, not some Brummagem
rubbish for the African market. If they’re the India Pattern or the 1842 Short
Land Pattern, then they’re equal to the best used by the British Army!” He
tried to sound casual. “Can I ask from where they come?”

Armstrong shook his head. “That
I am not at liberty to say. But I can reveal that we have help in high places.
Unexpected places too.” The warped grin seemed only to augment the acid in his
eyes. “We will make an impact this time; that I promise you.”

Mendick decided to push a little
harder. “We’ll need more than fifty men, then, if we want to make an impact,”
he said. “Fifty men won’t last long against the whole Queen’s army.”

“We have more than fifty.”
Armstrong’s grin writhed around his mouth as he watched the Chartists examine
their muskets. “We have a few more in other places.”

“A few more?” Mendick was
uncertain how far to probe, but any fragment of information could help nip this
insurrection in the bud. He saw Mrs Preston exchange a child for her husband’s
musket and hold it at arm’s length, as if it were something vile. Should he
condemn that woman to widowhood? Or should he break her dream and send her man
back to the hellish long hours and shockingly low pay that industry demanded of
its victims?

“How many is a few?”

Armstrong lifted a musket, his
fleshless claws closing on the stock. Keeping both eyes open, he sighted on the
church tower and pulled back the hammer.

“I can say that this unit is
only one of several that we have stationed all around the country.” He pressed
the trigger and the hammer clicked down ominously.

Mendick nodded. “I thought that we
were too small a group to overturn the government.” He would have to relay this
intelligence to Mr Smith as soon as one of his pigeons returned. “So how many
of us are there, Mr Armstrong?”

“Again, I am not at liberty to
impart that information.” Armstrong’s face closed. “But suffice to say that the
establishment,
” he made the word sound like a sneer, “will be dismayed
at the power we can command.”

Mendick forced an eager smile.
“So when do we act? When can I lead these men against the Whigs?” He hesitated
a little. “I would like another few weeks, if possible. They are good, but not
yet up to the standard of regular line infantry. For one thing, now they have
muskets, they have to be taught to shoot.”

“Which I am sure you will do
very well.” Armstrong seemed pleased at Mendick’s enthusiasm. “We have more
than sufficient powder and ball, and I can assure you that you will be given
advance warning.”

“And the noise?” Mendick probed
deeper, pushing Armstrong as far as he dared. “Fifty men volley-firing creates
a tremendous shine; the neighbours will be bound to hear. . .”

Again Armstrong looked
gratified, his red cap bobbing as he nodded.

“You mean Sir Robert Trafford?
Don’t you worry about him. Mr Monaghan has Trafford well numbered and filed.
You shoot away all you like, and remember that every ball is a tiny lead nail
in the coffin of the government! He’s a fine man, is Mr Monaghan, and a first
class leader. Indeed, he wants to see you.” Delving into the tail pocket of his
coat, Armstrong produced a sealed letter. “This is your invitation. I think
he’s going to tell you . . .” Armstrong shook his head. “Perhaps I should not
say, yet. Although I can guarantee that you will find the meeting very
interesting.”

Mendick kept his face immobile
although he felt the tension build inside him at the prospect of discovering
more about the mysteries that surrounded this surreal insurrection. Armstrong
seemed to be watching him very closely, as if gauging his reaction.

“Thank you, Mr Armstrong.” He
held the letter, feeling the rich quality of the paper. “It will be an honour
to meet Mr Monaghan again.”

His name was written in neat,
bold characters, but there were no other words on the front. He was aware only
of a premonition of evil tidings as Armstrong gave his twisted smile.

*

Sitting by the evening fire, he
watched Peter stare blankly into the flames as he opened his letter.

Mr Mendick
, the letter
read.
Pray attend a meeting at the Beehive on the 7
^th
January at
9 PM
. There was no signature, nothing incriminating to send to Scotland Yard.

“Very clandestine,” he said and
shook his head when Peter asked what he was reading. “Just an invitation to
meet somebody,” he said, showing the single sheet of paper.

“I’m no scholar,” Peter told
him, staring at the letter in incomprehension. “I never went to school.”

“I see.” Mendick once again
wondered if the Chartists might have a point about the shocking division of
society.

“I’ll learn sometime though.”
Peter leaned closer, as if proximity would clarify the mystery of the printed
word. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” Mendick
reassured him. “Stupid people can’t drive coaches.”

“That’s right,” Peter said
seriously. “They can’t, can they? Stupid people could never drive a coach as
good as me.” Fetching the cards, he cut and dealt. “And stupid people can’t
count the numbers in a pack of cards, either.” He pulled his chair over to the
table. “Fellow Chartists?”

“Fellow Chartists,” Mendick
confirmed, hating himself for the trusting pleasure in Peter’s eyes.

*

The barman waved him straight
into the back room of the Beehive, and Mendick entered the familiar combination
of stale tobacco smoke and gaunt faces. On his last visit, every man present
had been suspicious, but now they nodded a quiet welcome; they had accepted
him. Even Armstrong looked less hostile than normal as he lowered himself into
the seat nearest to the door, although the bulge in his jacket was a reminder.
Mendick pushed away the thought of the pepperpot revolver which lay concealed
under a slab in the cottage; if the Chartists caught him carrying it he would
be as good as dead.

“You are all familiar with the
work that Mr Mendick has been doing.” Monaghan rose from his position at the
head of the table. “He has spent the last month training a detachment of our
men, and by all accounts, they are now among the best we have.”

The atmosphere lightened
further; some of the anonymous faces even relaxed into cautious smiles.

“So you are continuing the good
work you started in the East.” Rachel Scott emerged from behind the fug of
tobacco smoke. Mendick watched her step to the head of the table, her clothes
patched and her accent once more rough-edged. “You are part of the movement
now, Mr Mendick, and that no man can deny.”

“Nor would want to,” a balding
delegate said quietly. He looked over to his companions. “I heard that you have
also trained your volunteers in foraging and picketing?”

“I have, sir,” Mendick
confirmed, but let’s hope that there is never a need to test their skills.”

The delegates nodded their
approval and the balding man spoke soberly, “Aye, we would all agree with that.
Nobody wants to shed blood, but the best defence is to possess the means of
attack.”

“Please God it does not come to
that,” an elderly man whispered, “I was at Peterloo when the dragoons charged.
I saw what sabres can do to unarmed people, and God forbid we ever witness such
a thing again.”