—G.J.

His first guilty thought was that Father had found out about the deal he had made with Lennox.

It had gone off perfectly. The shippers had boycotted the new coal heaving gangs, as Lennox had wanted; and Lennox had returned Jay’s IOUs, as agreed. But now the coal heavers were on strike and no coal had been landed in London for a week. Had Father discovered that all that might not have happened but for Jay’s gambling debts? The thought was dreadful.

He went to the Hyde Park encampment as usual and got permission from Colonel Cranbrough to be absent in the middle of the day. He spent the morning worrying. His bad temper made his men surly and his horses skittish.

The church bells were striking twelve as he entered the Jamissons’ riverside warehouse. The dusty air was laden with spicy smells—coffee and cinnamon, rum and port, pepper and oranges. It always made Jay think of his childhood, when the barrels and tea-chests had seemed so much bigger. Now he felt as he had as a boy, when he had done something naughty and was about to be carpeted. He crossed the floor, acknowledging the deferential greetings of the men, and climbed a rickety wooden staircase to the counting-house. After passing through a lobby occupied by clerks he went into his father’s office, a corner room full of maps and bills and pictures of ships.

“Good morning, Father,” he said. “Where’s Robert?” His brother was almost always at Father’s side.

“He had to go to Rochester. But this concerns you more than him. Sir Philip Armstrong wants to see me.”

Armstrong was the right-hand man of Secretary of State Viscount Weymouth. Jay felt even more nervous. Was he in trouble with the government as well as with his father? “What does Armstrong want?”

“He wants this coal strike brought to an end and he knows we started it.”

This did not seem to have anything to do with gambling debts, Jay inferred. But he was still anxious.

“He’ll be here any moment now,” Father added.

“Why is he coming here?” Such an important personage would normally summon people to his office in Whitehall.

“Secrecy, I imagine.”

Before he could ask any more questions the door opened and Armstrong came in. Both Jay and Sir George stood up. Armstrong was a middle-aged man formally dressed with wig and sword. He walked with his nose a little high, as if to show that he did not usually descend into the mire of commercial activity. Sir George did not like him—Jay could tell by his father’s expression as he shook hands and asked Armstrong to sit down.

Armstrong refused a glass of wine. “This strike has to end,” he said. “The coal heavers have closed down half of London’s industry.”

Sir George said: “We tried to get the sailors to uncoal the ships. It worked for a day or two.”

“What went wrong?”

“They were persuaded, or intimidated, or both, and now they are on strike too.”

“And the watermen,” Armstrong said with exasperation. “And even before the coal dispute started, there was trouble with tailors, silk weavers, hatters, sawyers.… This cannot go on.”

“But why have you come to me, Sir Philip?”

“Because I understand you were influential in starting the shippers’ boycott which provoked the coal heavers.”

“It’s true.”

“May I ask why?”

Sir George looked at Jay, who swallowed nervously and said: “I was approached by the undertakers who organized the coal heaving gangs. My father and I did not want the established order on the waterfront to be disturbed.”

“Quite right, I’m sure,” Armstrong said, and Jay thought: Get to the point. “Do you know who the ringleaders are?”

“I certainly do,” Jay said. “The most important is a man called Malachi McAsh, known as Mack. As it happens, he used to be a coal hewer in my father’s mines.”

“I’d like to see McAsh arrested and charged with a capital offense under the Riot Act. But it would have to be plausible: no trumped-up charges or bribed witnesses. There would have to be a real riot, unmistakably led by striking workmen, with firearms used against officers of the Crown, and numerous people killed and injured.”

Jay was confused. Was Armstrong telling the Jamissons to organize such a riot?

His father showed no sign of puzzlement. “You make yourself very clear, Sir Philip.” He looked at Jay. “Do you know where McAsh can be found?”

“No,” he said. Then, seeing the expression of scorn on his father’s face, he added hastily: “But I’m sure I can find out.”

At daybreak Mack woke Cora and made love to her. She had come to bed in the small hours, smelling of tobacco smoke, and he had kissed her and gone back to sleep. Now he was wide awake and she was the sleepy one. Her body was warm and relaxed, her skin soft, her red hair tangled. She wrapped her arms around him loosely and moaned quietly, and at the end she gave a small cry of delight. Then she went back to sleep.

He watched her for a while. Her face was perfect, small and pink and regular. But her way of life troubled him more and more. It seemed hard-hearted to use a child as her accomplice. If he talked to her about it, she got angry and told him that he was guilty too, for he was living here rent free and eating the food she bought with her ill-gotten gains.

He sighed and got up.

Cora’s home was the upstairs floor of a tumbledown building in a coal yard. The yard owner had once lived here, but when he prospered he had moved. Now he used the ground floor as an office and rented the upper floor to Cora.

There were two rooms, a big bed in one and a table and chairs in the other. The bedroom was full of what Cora spent all her money on: clothes. Both Esther and Annie had owned two dresses, one for work and one for Sundays, but Cora had eight or ten different outfits, all in striking colors: yellow, red, bright green and rich brown. She had shoes to match each one, and as many stockings and gloves and handkerchiefs as a fine lady.

He washed his face, dressed quickly and left. A few minutes later he was at Dermot’s house. The family were eating their breakfast porridge. Mack smiled at the children. Every time he used Cora’s “cundum” he wondered if he would have children of his own someday. At times he thought he would like Cora to have his baby; then he remembered how she lived and changed his mind.

Mack refused a bowl of porridge, for he knew they could not spare it Dermot, like Mack, was living off a woman: his wife washed pots in a coffeehouse in the evenings while he took care of the children.

“You’ve got a letter,” Dermot said, and handed Mack a sealed note.

Mack recognized the handwriting. It was almost identical with his own. The letter was from Esther. He felt a stab of guilt. He was supposed to be saving money for her, but he was on strike and penniless.

“Where’s it to be today?” Dermot said. Every day Mack met his lieutenants at a different location.

“The back bar of the Queen’s Head tavern,” Mack replied.

“I’ll spread the word.” Dermot put his hat on and went out.

Mack opened his letter and began to read.

It was fìlli of news. Annie was pregnant, and if the child turned out to be a boy they would call him Mack. For some reason that brought tears to Mack’s eyes. The Jamissons were sinking a new coal pit in High Glen, on the Hallim estate: they had dug fast and Esther would be working there as a bearer within a few days. That news was surprising: Mack had heard Lizzie say she would never allow coal mining in High Glen. The Reverend Mr. York’s wife had taken a fever and died: no shock there, she had always been sickly. And Esther was still determined to leave Heugh as soon as Mack could save the money.

He folded the letter and pocketed it. He must not let anything undermine his determination. He would win the strike, then he would be able to save.