“Most will, though.”

Dermot said: “We’ll round up as many as we can.” He and Charlie went out.

Mack looked at Cora. “Are you taking an evening off?” he said hopefully.

She shook her head. “Just waiting for my accomplice.”

It troubled Mack that Peg was a thief and Cora was responsible. “I wish we could find a way for that child to make a living without stealing,” he said.

“Why?”

The question flummoxed him. “Well, obviously …”

“Obviously what?”

“It would be better if she grew up honest.”

“How would it be better?”

Mack heard the undertone of anger in Cora’s questions, but he could not back off now. “What she does now is dangerous. She could end up hanging at Tyburn.”

“Would she be better off scrubbing the kitchen floor in some rich house, beaten by the cook and raped by the master?”

“I don’t think every kitchen skivvy gets raped—”

“Every pretty one does. And how would I make a living without her?”

“You could do anything, you’re shrewd and beautiful—”

“I don’t want to do anything. Mack, I want to do this.”

“Why?”

“I like it. I like dressing up and drinking gin and flirting. I steal from stupid men who have more money than they deserve. It’s exciting and it’s easy and I make ten times as much as I’d get dressmaking or running a little shop or serving customers in a coffeehouse.”

He was shocked. He had thought she would say she stole because she had to. The notion that she liked it overturned his expectations. “I really don’t know you,” he said.

“You’re clever, Mack, but you don’t know a damn thing.”

Peg arrived. She was pale and thin and tired, as always. Mack said: “Have you had some breakfast?”

“No,” she said, sitting down. “I’d love a glass of gin.”

Mack waved at a waiter. “A bowl of porridge with cream, please.”

Peg made a face, but when the food came she tucked in with relish.

While she was eating, Caspar Gordonson came in. Mack was glad to see him: he had been thinking of calling at the Fleet Street house to discuss the shippers’ boycott and the idea of a strike. Now he swiftly ran over the day’s events while the untidy lawyer sipped brandy.

As Mack talked, Gordonson looked more and more worried. When he had done, the lawyer began to speak in his high-pitched voice. “You have to understand that our rulers are frightened. Not just the royal court and the government, but the entire top layer: dukes and earls, aldermen, judges, merchants, landowners. All this talk of liberty unnerves them, and the food riots last year and the year before showed them what the people can do when they’re angry.”

“Good!” said Mack. “Then they should give us what we want.”

“Not necessarily. They’re afraid that if they do that you’ll only ask for more. What they really want is an excuse to call out the troops and shoot people.”

Mack could see that behind Gordonson’s cool analysis lay real fear. “Do they need an excuse?”

“Oh, yes. That’s because of John Wilkes. He’s a real thorn in their flesh. He accuses the government of being despotic. And as soon as troops are used against citizens, then thousands of people of the middling sort will say: ‘There, Wilkes was right, this government is a tyranny.’ And all those shopkeepers and silversmiths and bakers have votes.”

“So what kind of excuse does the government need?”

“They want you to scare those middling people by violence and rioting. That will get people worrying about the need to maintain order, and stop them thinking about freedom of speech. Then, when the army marches in, there will be a collective sigh of relief instead of a roar of outrage.”

Mack was fascinated and unnerved. He had never thought about politics this way. He had discussed high-flown theories out of books, and he had been the helpless victim of unjust laws, but this was halfway between the two. This was the zone where contending forces struggled and swayed, and tactics could alter the result. This, he felt, was the real thing—and it was dangerous.

The enchantment was lost on Gordonson: he just looked worried. “I got you into this, Mack, and if you get killed it will be on my conscience.”

His fear began to infect Mack. Four months ago I was just a coal miner, he thought; now I’m an enemy of the government, someone they want to kill. Did I ask for this? But he was under a powerful obligation. Just as Gordonson felt responsible for him, he was responsible for the coal heavers. He could not run away and hide. It would be shameful and cowardly. He had led the men into trouble and now he had to lead them out of it.

“What do you think we should do?” he asked Gordonson.

“If the men agree to strike, your job will be to keep them under control. You’ll have to stop them setting fire to ships and murdering strikebreakers and laying siege to undertakers’ taverns. These men aren’t parsons, as you well know—they’re young and strong and angry, and if they run riot they’ll burn London.”

“I think I might be able to do that,” Mack said. “They listen to me. They seem to respect me.”

“They worship you,” Gordonson said. “And that puts you in even greater danger. You’re a ringleader, and the government may break the strike by hanging you. From the moment the men say yes, you’ll be in terrible danger.”

Mack was beginning to wish he had never mentioned the word “strike.” He said: “What should I do?”

“Leave the place where you’re lodging and move somewhere else. Keep your address secret from all but a few trusted people.”

Cora said: “Come and live with me.”

Mack managed a smile. That part would not be difficult.

Gordonson went on: “Don’t show yourself on the streets in daylight. Appear at meetings, then vanish. Become a ghost.”

It was faintly ridiculous, Mack felt, but his fear made him accept it. “All right.”

Cora got up to leave. To Mack’s surprise, Peg put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “Be careful, Scotch Jock,” she said. “Don’t get knifed.”

Mack was surprised and touched by how much they all cared for him. Three months ago he had never met Peg, Cora or Gordonson.

Cora kissed him on the lips and then sauntered out, already swaying her hips seductively. Peg followed.

A few moments later Mack and Gordonson left for the Jolly Sailor. It was dark, but Wapping High Street was busy, and candlelight gleamed from tavern doorways, house windows and handheld lanterns. The tide was out, and a strong smell of rottenness wafted up from the foreshore.

Mack was surprised to see the tavern’s courtyard packed with men. There were about eight hundred coal heavers in London, and at least half of them were here. Someone had hastily erected a crude platform and placed four blazing torches around it for illumination. Mack pushed through the crowd. Every man recognized him and spoke a word or clapped him on the back. The news of his arrival spread quickly and they started to cheer. By the time he reached the platform they were roaring. He stepped up and gazed at them. Hundreds of coal-smeared faces looked back at him in the torchlight. He fought back tears of gratitude for their trust in him. He could not speak: they were shouting too loudly. He held up his hands for quiet, but it did no good. Some cried his name, others yelled “Wilkes and liberty!” and other slogans. Gradually one chant emerged and came to dominate the rest, until they were all bellowing the same:

“Strike! Strike! Strike!”

Mack stood and stared at them, thinking: What have I done?

21

JAY JAMISSON RECEIVED A NOTE FROM HIS FATHER AT breakfast time. It was characteristically curt.

Grosvenor Square

8 o’clock a.m.Meet me at my place of business at noon.