He went out to the Prince of Denmark and climbed aboard. The crew had gone ashore, leaving one old sailor smoking a pipe on deck. He directed Mack to the captain’s cabin. The skipper was at the table, writing laboriously in the ship’s log with a quill pen. “Good day to you, Captain,” Mack said with a friendly smile. “I’m Mack McAsh.”
“What is it?” the man said gruffly. He did not ask Mack to take a seat.
Mack ignored his rudeness: captains were never very polite. “Would you like your ship uncoaled quickly and efficiently tomorrow?” he said pleasantly.
“No.”
Mack was surprised. Had someone got here before him? “Who’s going to do it for you, then?”
“None of your damn business.”
“It certainly is my business; but if you don’t want to tell me, no matter—someone else will.”
“Good day to you, then.”
Mack frowned. He was reluctant to leave without finding out what was wrong. “What the devil is the trouble with you, Captain—have I done something to offend you?”
“I’ve nothing more to say to you, young man, and you’ll oblige me by taking your leave.”
Mack had a bad feeling about this but he could not think of anything else to say, so he left. Ships’ captains were a notoriously bad-tempered lot—perhaps because they were away from their wives so much.
He looked along the river. Another new ship, Whitehaven Jack, was anchored next to the Prince. Her crew were still furling sails and winding ropes into neat coils on the deck. Mack decided to try her next, and got his boatman to take him there.
He found the captain on the poop deck with a young gentleman in sword and wig. He greeted them with the relaxed courtesy which, he had found, was the fastest way to win people’s confidence. “Captain, sir, good day to you both.”
This captain was polite. “Good day to you. This is Mr. Tallow, the owner’s son. What’s your business?”
Mack replied: “Would you like your ship uncoaled tomorrow by a fast and sober gang?”
The captain and the gentleman spoke together.
“Yes,” said the captain.
“No,” said Tallow.
The captain showed surprise and looked questioningly at Tallow. The young man addressed Mack, saying: “You’re McAsh, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I believe shippers are beginning to take my name as a guarantee of good work—”
“We don’t want you,” said Tallow.
This second rejection riled Mack. “Why not?” he said challengingly.
“We’ve done business with Harry Nipper at the Frying Pan for years and never had any trouble.”
The captain interjected: “I wouldn’t exactly say we’ve had no trouble.”
Tallow glared at him.
Mack said: “And it’s not fair that men should be forced to drink their wages, is it?”
Tallow looked piqued. “I’m not going to argue with the likes of you—there’s no work for you here, so be off.”
Mack persisted. “But why would you want your ship uncoaled in three days by a drunken and rowdy gang when you could have it done faster by my men?”
The captain, who was clearly not overawed by the owner’s son, added: “Yes, I’d like to know that.”
“Don’t you dare to question me, either of you,” Tallow said. He was trying to stand on his dignity but he was a little too young to succeed.
A suspicion crossed Mack’s mind. “Has someone told you not to hire my gang?” The look on Tallow’s face told him he had guessed right.
“You’ll find that nobody on the river will hire your gang, or Riley’s or Charlie Smith’s,” Tallow said petulantly. “The word has gone out that you’re a troublemaker.”
Mack realized this was very serious, and a cold chill settled on his heart. He had known that Lennox and the undertakers would move against him sooner or later, but he had not expected them to be supported by the ship owners.
It was a little puzzling. The old system was not particularly good for the owners. However, they had worked with the undertakers for years, and perhaps sheer conservatism led them to side with people they knew, regardless of justice.
It would be no use to show anger, so he spoke mildly to Tallow. “I’m sorry you’ve made that decision. It’s bad for the men and bad for the owners. I hope you’ll reconsider, and I bid you good day.”
Tallow made no reply, and Mack had himself rowed ashore. He felt dashed. He held his head in his hands and looked at the filthy brown water of the Thames. What had made him think he could defeat a group of men as wealthy and ruthless as the undertakers? They had connections and support. Who was he? Mack McAsh from Heugh.
He should have foreseen this.
He jumped ashore and made his way to St. Luke’s Coffee House, which had become his unofficial head quarters. There were now at least five gangs working the new system. Next Saturday night, when the remaining old-style gangs received their decimated wages from the rapacious tavern keepers, most of them would change over. But the shippers’ boycott would ruin that prospect.
The coffeehouse was next to St. Luke’s Church. It served beer and spirits as well as coffee, and food too, but everyone sat down to eat and drink, whereas most stood up in a tavern.
Cora was there, eating bread and butter. Although it was midafternoon, this was her breakfast: she was often up half the night. Mack asked for a plate of hashed mutton and a tankard of beer and sat down with her. Straightaway she said: “What’s the matter?”
He told her. As he talked he watched her innocent face. She was ready for work, dressed in the orange gown she had worn the first time he had met her and scented with her spicy perfume. She looked like a picture of the Virgin Mary, but she smelled like a sultan’s harem. It was no wonder that drunks with gold in their purses were willing to follow her down dark alleys, he thought.
He had spent three of the last six nights with her. She wanted to buy him a new coat. He wanted her to give up the life she led. She was his first real lover.
As he was finishing his story, Dermot and Charlie came in. He had been cherishing a faint hope that they might have had better luck than he, but their expressions told him they had not. Charlie’s black face was a picture of despondency, and Dermot said in his Irish brogue: “The owners have conspired against us. There’s not a captain on the river that will give us work.”
“Damn their eyes,” Mack said. The boycott was working and he was in trouble.
He suffered a moment of righteous indignation. All he wanted was to work hard and earn enough money to buy his sister’s freedom, but he was constantly thwarted by people who had money in bagftils.
Dermot said: “We’re finished, Mack.”
His readiness to give up angered Mack more than the boycott itself. “Finished?” he said scornfully. “Are you a man or what?”
“But what can we do?” said Dermot. “If the owners won’t hire our gangs, the men will go back to the old system. They’ve got to live.”
Without thinking, Mack said: “We could organize a strike.”
The other men were silent.
Cora said: “Strike?”
Mack had blurted out his suggestion as soon as it came into his mind but, as he thought more, it seemed the only thing to do. “All the coal heavers want to change to our system,” he said. “We could persuade them to stop working for the old undertakers. Then the shippers would have to hire the new gangs.”
Dermot was skeptical. “Suppose they still refuse to hire us?”
This pessimism angered Mack. Why did men always expect the worst? “If they do that, no coal will corrie ashore.”