The Darkest Walk of Crime (8 page)

“Which regiment were you with?”
Again there was that sneer as Armstrong indicated that one regiment was much
alike another. “Were you a Guardsman? Were you one of those tin soldiers who
stand outside the palace to intimidate the people if they dare to approach Her
Majesty?”

“I was in the 26
^th
Foot.” Mendick told the truth. He felt his fists clench as he prepared to
defend his regiment. He knew that to do so was to forsake his duty to the
police force, but he refused to desert an older and fiercer loyalty.

“Why did you join?” Monaghan’s
milder tones oiled what could have developed into very troubled waters. He
remained seated at the head of the table, while Scott watched, her head tilted
to one side, eyes musing.

“Like most soldiers, it was a
choice between the army and starvation.”

“Of course,” Monaghan nodded his
understanding. “So you were as much a victim as any of us, forced to defend a
system that had betrayed you, and all for a shilling a day.”

“Less stoppages,” Mendick
reminded him, trying to win sympathy through humour.

“Less stoppages,” Monaghan
agreed.

“However –” Hardening his tone,
Mendick put the flat of his hands on the top of the table, “I thought I was
asked here to help further the Chartist cause, not to entertain you with my
military past.”

“Perhaps the two are not so far
apart,” Monaghan told him, and the others gave nods of approval. “What rank did
you hold in the 26
^th
Foot, Mr Mendick?”

Mendick had never risen higher
than corporal and had been broken back to a private soldier within two months.
“I was a sergeant,” he said.

“And you are still as committed
to the Charter as you appear to have been when you were a soldier?”

“I am, sir,” Mendick said. “Mr
Monaghan, I am not by nature a patient man. The working men were cheated back
in ‘32 and ignored in ‘42; I think it is about time we pushed harder for our
rights. If that means using physical force, then so be it.” Warming to his task
he rose, addressing the assembled men as if he were lecturing to a bunch of
Johnny Raw recruits who had just assembled, all mouth and wonder.

“I presume that everybody
present has signed the Charter, so I can speak plainly. I do not like the idea
of revolution, and I do not like the idea of bloodshed; few soldiers do, once
we have seen the real thing. However, sometimes a lesser evil is necessary in
order to defeat a greater, and I believe that the present situation is . . .”
He halted and searched for the right word. “Indefensible. As we know, the
Whigs’
so-called
Great Reform Act of 1832 only made matters worse by
giving the vote to the middling classes and leaving us, the real workers of
Britain, out in the cold.”

Mendick stopped for breath,
realising that the men at the table were agreeing with every word, while Scott
was still standing with her head to one side, smiling softly.

“So yes, I am committed to the
Charter; tell me how I can further the cause and I will strain every muscle and
sinew I possess to that aim.”

Monaghan had been listening
carefully, and now he looked around the room, his eyebrows raised. One by one
the men grunted or nodded, answering an unspoken question. Armstrong was the
last to give even such grudging approval, and he continued to stare at Mendick,
slowly puffing at his pipe.

“How can you further the cause?”
Monaghan mused. “Well, Mr Mendick, at this very moment the master workmen of Birmingham
are manufacturing pikes for the nail makers of Staffordshire to smuggle out to
us in their aprons. We have people making hand grenades and others creating
caltrops to slow down the cavalry.”

Mendick listened, trying to mask
his horror with a look of anticipation. So Mr Smith had been correct and the
Chartists were going to attempt a revolution. He remembered similar rumours
back in 1842, but this time there seemed to be more substance. The thought of
armed men marching through Manchester, or dragoons deploying in Darlington, was
terrifying.

“We have other plans,” Monaghan
told him. “If the magistrates try to Peterloo us, then we will
Moscow
England
. We will burn
Newcastle
to the ground and destroy the house and factory of every
Whig between
Birmingham
and
Preston
, aye, and more than that . . .”

“Enough, perhaps, for now.” Rachel
Scott seemed to be warning Monaghan. “Perhaps our colleague here would rather
know how
he
could help.” Her gaze did not leave Mendick’s face.

“We want you to use your
military experience to train an army of workers,” Monaghan told him bluntly.
“But if you are caught doing so, it will be the rope. Are you willing to help?”

Mendick nodded, surprised at how
easy it had been. He had succeeded in inveigling himself into the Chartist
ranks.

When he looked up, he felt the
tension in the room, with every person present watching him. Some were clearly
suspicious about him, others challenging and Scott plainly curious, but
Armstrong’s right hand was inside his jacket, as if he were holding some sort
of weapon.

“Are you willing, Mendick?”
Monaghan demanded a reply.

His shrug was genuine. As a
policeman, he was in far more danger from these revolutionaries than from any
government hangman, but if he was caught and killed, well then . . .

“What is the rope? What is one
life when the happiness of millions is at stake?”

“Oh, very melodramatic,”
Armstrong said, “but let’s hear you say that when the noose is tightening
around your neck.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a hiss and the scar
raising the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever seen a man hanged, Mr Mendick?
Have you seen the sweat start from his forehead as the rope is positioned and
heard his grunting gasp as he realises he will never see another day?”

Mendick nodded. “I have.”

“And you are not afraid?”
Armstrong’s sneer was pronounced, but Mendick realised that others in the room
were becoming uncomfortable at his persistent harassment.

“I did not say I was unafraid. I
said that losing my life may be worthwhile.” Mendick felt the tension in the
room ease slightly as most of the delegates approved his statement. They were
working men, made hard by adversity, but beneath the inflexible shell they were
prepared to be fair to those of whom they approved.

Armstrong grunted and raised his
reptilian eyes.

“It’s easy to play with words
when you are safe in this room. I’ve seen hangings enough to sicken the devil
and other things that would make you squirm in horror. I’ve seen much worse
than hangings; I’ve known men commit murder just so they could welcome the
noose as a release from unendurable torment. If you join us, you might see the
same. Are you willing to risk that?”

This time it was Mendick who
grunted.

“I’ve said my piece. I am a man
of my word so there is no need for me to repeat myself, but I do object to
speaking to people who seem to doubt everything I say.” Straightening up, he
looked directly at Armstrong. “Your commitment to the Charter is well known,
sir, but that does not give you the right to bullyrag me in such a manner.”

Armstrong’s mouth tightened,
making the scar gleam white across his lower lip.

“I believe that my commitment
gives me every right, Mr Mendick. You turned up at our meeting with a piece of
pasteboard and a paper that you might well have written yourself and with no
known history of dedication to the cause. Have you ever been jailed for the
charter?”

Mendick shook his head. “I have
not,” he admitted. It was obvious Armstrong thought of himself as a martyr,
someone who had suffered for the Charter in the same manner as Christ suffered
on the cross.

“
I
was,” Armstrong said,
“I was, and the bastards carried me through England in an open cart, chained
hand and foot, and sent me to Van Diemen’s Land.” The bitterness increased as
he recalled vivid memories.

The arrest and transportation of
Armstrong had infuriated many of Mendick’s police colleagues, who had hoped for
the death penalty. They had accused Armstrong of being responsible for some of
the worst violence of the Chartist outbreak of 1842, when men had died and
buildings had been torched in the name of an extended franchise.

“Well, you’re back now.” As
Mendick focussed determinedly on those acidic eyes, he fought the chill which
emanated from this man and wondered what else in Armstrong's life had
contributed to such bitterness.

“Aye, I’m back,” Armstrong
jabbed the stem of his pipe at Mendick, like some foul-fumed weapon from the
Pit, “and I intend to ensure that no more Chartists are sent across the pond.
Do you agree now that I have the right to query the commitment of others?”

“I think there has been enough
querying,” Monaghan decided. “Mr Mendick has offered his services, and I
believe we should accept them.”

“As you wish, Mr Monaghan, as
you wish,” Armstrong capitulated immediately. He stood up, banging the embers
of his pipe onto the floor. “You claim to have come from London to help us, Mr
Mendick, and now is your chance. Come with me; we have much to do.” On this
last word Armstrong rose and limped towards the door.

“Where are we going?” Life in
the army had taught Mendick to accept such abrupt changes in his life.

“We are going to show you why we
so urgently need the Charter, and then we will put you to work.” Walking with a
peculiarly hunched gait, Armstrong led Mendick out of the public house and
through the arched door of a stable. Daylight from the open door silhouetted
something square and bulky in the gloom.

The sudden beam from a
bull’s-eye lantern blinded Mendick as a deep voice challenged. “Who’s that?”

“It’s all right, Peter,”
Armstrong said. “It’s me, and I have an ally.”                                            

“Sorry, Mr Armstrong.” There was
a faint scrape as the man named Peter opened the shutter of the lantern. “I
didn’t know it was you.” The light altered to a less direct and wider glow,
illuminating the interior of the stable and revealing the bulky object to be a
four-wheeled brougham.

Peter absently fondled the
muzzle of the white horse delicately feeding beside the carriage. Well over six
feet tall, his shoulders spread like the gable end of a house, yet he walked so
lightly that the straw beneath his feet barely rustled. He stood quietly, eyes
fixed on Armstrong and cradling the lantern as though it were his last hope of
sanctuary.

“This is Mr Mendick,” Armstrong
spoke slowly. “He used to be a soldier, but now he has joined us, so we will
show him exactly why the Charter is so important to the people of Manchester.”

“Are we going on a trip, Mr
Armstrong?” The idea seemed to please Peter.

“Drive, Peter. I’ll tell you
where.” Armstrong jerked a thumb to the carriage. “Get in, Mr Mendick, and I’ll
educate you.”

As Peter climbed on to the
elevated driver’s seat, Mendick ran his hand over the yellow stripe along the
blue paintwork.

“Nice carriage.” He remembered
that some of the London criminals liked the brougham because of its tight
turning circle and wondered if Armstrong had similar reasons for his choice of
carriage. He slid inside, where fresh straw on the floor combined with the
clean upholstery to create an impression of prosperity that contrasted with the
general malaise that seemed to permeate Manchester.

Armstrong glared at him through
these malicious eyes while his mouth retained the twisted sneer.

“You come from London, and you
think you know deprivation.” His voice had the hard edge of Newcastle, without
the lifting twang.

“I have lived in London,”
Mendick agreed.

“Well, London may have pockets of
poverty, but here we live with it every day and everywhere.” Armstrong’s tone
was as challenging as his eyes, and Mendick wondered if he was adopting the
pose of the experienced Chartist educating the man from the South. “We do not
just toy with the idea of Chartism; it is not a theory for those blessed with
some education; it is the only hope of escape for the majority of our people.”

Mendick heard the sincerity in
Armstrong’s voice; the man was not posturing but attempting to convince him of
what he believed was truth. He narrowed his eyes as his policeman’s cynicism
momentarily faltered.

“Perhaps you should show me,” he
suggested.

“That is my intention.”
Armstrong shifted restlessly on the padded seat.

It took Peter several minutes to
back the single horse into position, and then they were moving out of the
stables and growling through the streets of
Manchester
, passing groups of broken people standing in the streets,
watching listlessly.

“They wonder who we are and why
we are driving a carriage through their streets,” Armstrong spoke quietly.
“It’s not something they see every day.”

Pulling back the curtains from
the gleaming window, Mendick looked outside. Brick terraced streets followed
one another in row after squalid row, with the crowds becoming ever more
tattered, ever more hopeless.

“Aye, that’s what we’re fighting
for,” Armstrong said. “Maybe our lives are worth losing, eh? We may die, but we
give hope to the hopeless.” Mendick was surprised to see compassion in the
acidic eyes. “You gave a glib enough answer, but for some of us, this is more
than just a pastime; it’s a crusade.”

Mendick listened as Armstrong
spoke to him about Manchester.

“It is an amazing city: the
phenomenon of the age, a microcosm of the new industrialism that has
transformed the country. What happens in Manchester is copied elsewhere, and
what we do here must be an example to others.” Again Armstrong sounded intense.
“We
must
succeed; we
must
make this government see that the
present system is murdering the people of this country.”