The Darkest Walk of Crime (9 page)

“I agree,” Mendick said, and at
that moment, with the images of appalling poverty grinding past, he was not
insincere. “But how can we make them listen?”

“As you know, we are torn as to
our methods.” Armstrong was nearly in tears at the frustration of constant
failure. “We have the Moral Force Chartists, who hope to use petitions to
persuade the government, either Whig or Tory, and we have the Physical Force
Chartists, who prefer sterner methods.”

Mendick nodded; this was what he
had hoped to hear.

“Physical force would appear to
be the better method,” he said. “We already tried the petitions in 1839 and 1842.”

“And the beak handed me
twenty-one years’ transportation for my pains,” Armstrong reminded him, easing
himself into a more comfortable position. “So this time we have a combination
of both methods. We have O’Connor’s petition, which will be handed to Earl
Russell after a great meeting in London, but that will be combined with the
threat of physical force.” He looked out of the window as the carriage turned
off Oldham Road. “This is Angel Meadow; it is as bad as anything you have in London.”

Mendick glanced outside. The
brick streets were uniformly narrow with scarcely enough space for the brougham
to pass between the smoke-blackened houses. Clad in rags that barely covered
their decency, crowds of gaunt men and women watched them from the doorways. 
Many seemed to be nursing injuries or deformities.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Armstrong
shook his head. “This is the result of Whig policies, of profit followed by
higher profit and expecting the poor to fend for themselves. Do you know that a
labourer in Manchester has an average lifespan of seventeen years? Seventeen
years! Sweet God, Mendick, at that age he’s hardly begun his life.”

The venom was back in Armstrong’s
voice. “Aye, so we will offer the petition to Finality Jack Russell and his
Whigs, and if he turns it down again, why, then we will have an army ready up
here. Thanks to you and others like you.”

So that was it, simple and
direct, the iron fist of physical force hidden within the velvet glove of the
petition.

“Have you seen enough?”
Armstrong did not flinch when one of the watching destitute threw a stone which
bounced off the carriage. “Do you want to see more poverty, more suffering,
more dirt and disease, or shall we travel to our antidote for this disease?”

Mendick was used to the slums of
London and had known the decaying Old Town of Edinburgh; he had seen the
teeming morasses of cities in China and the Middle East, but he was still
shocked by Manchester. This town was famed as one of the leading industrial
centres of the world; if it treated its people in such a manner, then any
future for the working majority seemed grim.

“I think we need an antidote,”
he said.

There was quite a crowd gathered
now, with more missiles bouncing off the body of the coach. He heard Peter
shout and saw his whip crack in front of the attackers.

“Peter! Leave them be!”
Armstrong shouted. “They are not the enemy; they are just victims. But get us
to the village, now.” He leaned back. “You look surprised, Mr Mendick. Perhaps Manchester
is not as you expected?”

“I am not exactly sure what I
expected,” Mendick admitted, “but I was surprised myself to see you had a
carriage. I thought only the rich could afford such a thing.”

The sudden sour grin took him
off guard. “It’s not mine,” Armstrong said. “Let’s just say that I borrowed it,
horse, carriage and all. I only own the driver.”

Mendick thought it best to
appear impressed. “You borrowed an entire carriage? Does the owner not mind?”

“The owner has many carriages,”
Armstrong said, “he will not miss one.” The grin widened, revealing stumps of
teeth. “We have an arrangement.”

“You stole it,” Mendick accused,
“from a gentleman.” He looked at the sordid streets outside. “That was a daring
act, Mr Armstrong.”

“Oh, we are full of daring acts,
Mr Mendick, as you will see.”

Stealing something as expensive
as a carriage would mean transportation at the very least, but as a returned
Demonian, Armstrong was probably facing the death penalty anyway. Mendick
settled back on the seat and shuffled his feet in the deep straw. He was quite
used to travelling in an omnibus but had never been in a private carriage
before; more amenable company might even have made this experience enjoyable.

“Jesus!” The brougham rocked as
a barrage of missiles clattered off the coachwork, and it mounted the kerb. It
crashed back on to the ground, jarring Mendick and knocking Armstrong from his
seat.

“What the hell!” Armstrong
lifted his voice into a hoarse roar. “Peter! What sort of driving is that? It’s
the black hole for you!”

“The what?” Mendick asked.

Armstrong pulled himself back
onto the seat, rubbing one hand across his back and grimacing with obvious
pain.

“The black hole; you’ll see
later. It’s the only way to keep Peter under control. He doesn’t understand
anything else, the ignorant slubber.”

Mendick nodded, mildly
interested that a Chartist delegate should speak so callously of a fellow
worker. He sat back; his next step was to find Sergeant Ogden and then
telegraph Inspector Field to inform him of his progress. Closing his eyes, he
wondered at the turn of events. Ten days ago he had been an ordinary constable
in London, now he was sitting opposite a red-capped revolutionary on a mad
careen through Manchester, bound for God knew where to do the devil knew what.

He sighed, wondering what Emma
would think of him now.

“Where did you say we were
going?”

“I didn’t.”

Armstrong was back to his old
cagey self. His eyes challenged Mendick to ask another question. Instead,
Mendick listened as the grinding of the wheels altered to a lighter rumble, and
the drumming of the horse’s hooves softened to a rhythmic throb. They had
obviously left the town and were on a country road, with the horse thumping
through mud and the carriage swaying on an uneven surface, and the occasional
branch scraping alarmingly across the bodywork.

“Not long now,” Armstrong broke
a long silence, “and you can begin your work.” He leaned forward. “You have an
army to train, for we have a country to set to rights.”

“An army? How big an army?”

“You’ll see, by and by.”
Armstrong’s smile twisted his mouth further, but his eyes were as cold as
December sleet. “You boasted of your military experience and your commitment to
the Chartist cause. Now you can prove it.” He produced a percussion pistol from
his coat. “Of course, if I find that you have been throwing the hatchet, then .
. .” He pointed the pistol full at Mendick’s face. “I will kill you stone
dead.”

Lancashire: December
1847

Rain pattered rapidly on the
exterior of the coach as Peter negotiated a series of increasingly jolting
tracks. The coach rocked and rolled along the rutted country lanes, rattling
between dripping trees and past well-cultivated fields until they eventually stopped
at a brick stable.

“Straight in, Peter!” Armstrong
yelled, and Peter, swathed in a box coat stretched to splitting point, hastily
leaped down from the driver’s perch, opened the stable door and then drove
inside.

“It’s only a small step from
here,” Armstrong said. “Peter, join us once you have dealt with the horse.”

“Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter had
spoken over his shoulder, but there was a noticeable tremble in his voice.

“This way.”

Walking with that awkwardly
hunched gait, Armstrong followed a winding footpath to the summit of a heavily
wooded knoll. Rain pelted through the bare branches above to cascade on to
their heads and shoulders.

“I’ll have to stop for a
moment,” Armstrong said, gasping as he leaned his hand against the trunk of a
wind-twisted birch.

“Take your time.”

A small but broad valley
stretched ahead, dull under the hissing rain. Sad trees and small steadings sat
stolidly amidst a patchwork of square fields, while a church stood in
everlasting promise within its own grassy grounds.

“Take a good look,” Armstrong
advised. “This is your new home.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Mendick said.
He was not sure about the implications.

“But few better.” There was
genuine pride in Armstrong’s voice. “You’ll know all about O’Connor’s Land
Plan.”

Mendick nodded. “Of course.”

It was an idea of the Chartists
to fight the horrors of industrialisation by having people work on their own
piece of land.

“Well, this is the end result:
Chartertown. Just over a hundred acres divided into thirty-five smallholdings,
each one between two and four acres, with a specially built comfortable
cottage. O’Connor raised a subscription to purchase the land, and he is
creating a Chartist settlement here in Lancashire.”

Mendick nodded. After seeing the
terrible conditions in which most Mancunians seemed to live, he had only
respect for O’Connor’s utopian ideas.

“It seems a fine place, Mr
Armstrong, but I thought I was to train an army?”

“All in good time.” Armstrong
seemed pleased with Mendick’s commitment. He began to walk down the hill,
rotating his shoulders as if he were in pain. “First we have to attend to
Peter.”

The giant coachman had followed
them, walking so quietly that Mendick had scarcely heard his feet flatten the
sodden grass.

“Please . . .” Peter cowered as
Armstrong took hold of his shoulder. “I could not help it; they were throwing
stones at the horses.”

“You knocked me from my seat,”
Armstrong pushed the huge man in front of him, “so it’s the black hole for
you.”

“Please, Mr Armstrong, the horse
was scared.”

“And you’ll be scared now,
Peter, alone in the dark with the spiders and the slithering things.” Armstrong
said the words slowly, obviously ensuring that the giant man understood the
full implications.

“Yes.” Peter was crying, great
tears rolling down his rough face. “Don’t put me there, Mr Armstrong, please
don’t.”

Mendick watched with some
interest. He must have seen hundreds of miscreants being led to the cells, some
defiant, others weeping or affecting mocking nonchalance, so one more made
little difference to him. Nevertheless, Peter seemed capable of killing the
much slighter Armstrong with just one swing of a mighty arm, so it was strange
to see him obeying an obviously objectionable command so meekly.

“Come along, Peter, or it will
be the worse for you.” Armstrong showed neither remorse nor anger as he hurried
Peter along to the first of the buildings in the valley.

The black hole was a stone
structure with no windows and only a single small door, outside which Peter
hesitated, holding on to the wall. He was whimpering pitifully,

“Please, Mr Armstrong, I was
afraid they would hurt the horse. Please don’t make me go in there.”

“Get in,” Armstrong ordered
quietly, “or you’ll be there for a week.”

Squeezing under the low
threshold, Peter immediately turned to face them. His eyes reminded Mendick of
a terrified puppy.

“I’ll allow you out when I think
you’ve learned your lesson,” Armstrong said, “and that might be a long time.”
He rubbed his back as if the minor fall inside the coach had caused him great
pain.

“I’m sorry,” Peter wailed, but
Armstrong banged shut the heavy wooden door and dragged two iron bolts into
position. Peter’s whines rose in pitch.

“Ignore the shine,” Armstrong
advised. “He can’t come to any harm in there, and it keeps him under control.
I’ll let him out tomorrow morning and not before.”

Immediately dismissing his
prisoner, he indicated the settlement with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome to
Chartertown, Mr Mendick. What do you think of the new utopia?”

Turning his back on the lock-up,
Mendick took a long look around the valley. The smallholdings looked
comfortable under the rain, and each field was neat and carefully kept.

“I can see why people would want
to live here,” he said. “But don’t the neighbours object to having a Chartist
community in their midst?”

“Not in the least.” Armstrong
seemed to be almost choking with repressed satisfaction. “We are hard by
Trafford land, and he has not the slightest objection.”

“Trafford land? Sir Robert
Trafford?”

“The very same.”

The irony was unmistakable. Sir
Robert Trafford was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, a landowner of the old school, one
of the regulars in the clubs of St James and Piccadilly and surely one of the
worst enemies that the Chartists could have. When Trafford was not hunting with
the Quorn, he was flicking cards across the green baize tables of London’s
gambling hells, while rumour insisted that he also made free play with society
ladies or anyone else in a skirt.

“Let me show you around,”
Armstrong offered suddenly, surprisingly genial now that Peter was locked
safely away.

Chartertown comprised a scatter
of detached cottages, each set within its enclosed rectangular fields. At the
head of the village stood the square church, with a simple tower from which
rose a flagpole, but rather than flying the Union Flag or the Cross of St
George, a green Chartist banner drooped in the rain. Backing on to the church
was a swathe of meadow stretching to the skeletal trees of a regular plantation
that marked the end of the enclave.

“We seem to have everything we
need,” Mendick said.

“It’s a small beginning,”
Armstrong told him, “but we have over a thousand acres of land in England, and
70,000 people hoping to return to the land.” He spat on the ground. “So much
for the industrialists with their hellish working hours which tear families
apart.” There was fierce pride as he looked around him. “We don’t have a total
utopia, but it’s worth fighting for, and that’s where you come in. Walk with
me.”