the direction of their masters, the men who oversaw the loading and unloading of the ships. Red-eyed night watchmen slowly made their way home, hunched with fatigue after a night on duty on ships and in warehouses. The slippery jetties were stacked high with crates and barrels awaiting the army of porters to take them into the warehouses standing tall along the docks.
‘Don’t you worry, chum, we’ll soon have her bobbing along good as new,’ one of the lightermen shouted down as he started unbuttoning his jacket.
‘This can’t go on,’ Patrick said, to rumbles of agreement on either side of him. ‘We all know that Roy told Ma Tugman to sling her hook and this is the result.’
Bert Bunton, who was so ancient he could have sailed with Drake, slipped his cap off and wiped his forehead. ‘And much good it did him,’ he said, the leathery skin of his face creasing as he spoke. ‘All e’s got to show for it is a hull clogged with mud.’
Patrick nodded. ‘That’s a fact, but a man can mend a boat. He can’t feed his family if he’s in prison, can he now?’
Ezra Lennon, a regular in the Town of Ramsgate and one of the dock masters who gave out the daily work tickets, stepped forward. ‘Roy’s barge isn’t the first to be stoved in,’ he said. ‘Seth Morton’s Dolphin had its rigging cut and Conner’s had his sails ditched in the river. They’d told Ma to look elsewhere, too.’
Bert’s rheumy eyes flickered into life. ‘That wot I’s saying - Ma and her boys will get you. I’ve been on this ’ere river over forty years, since I was a nipper. In me old dad’s time Popeye Wells and the Shadwell boys ruled, then it was Mad Corky and a dozen years ago Danny Donovan held sway. So if it weren’t the Tugmans, it would be some other fast crew. As I say, it is the way of the river.’
‘Only if we let it be,’ Patrick replied, in a voice that carried over the crowd. ‘You all know where I stand on the Tugmans, but I’m only one man. If we join together they won’t be able to pick us off one by one and they’ll have to move their pilfered goods some other way.’
‘What’s you saying?’ Ezra asked.
‘I’m saying that all of us who are interested should meet in the Town next Saturday and form an association,’ Patrick replied.
Bert pointed a tobacco-stained finger at him. ‘You’re not one of those Chartists are you, Nolan?’ he asked. ‘Cos I ain’t marchin’ on Westminster. Not with my legs.’
Patrick’s manner lightened a little. ‘No. I’m just after getting us to stand together against those who’re trying to take the bread out of our children’s mouths.’
There were murmurs of agreement then, from the back of the crowd, a police officer in a navy, high-collared tailcoat and top hat, pushed his way through.
The officer was shorter than Patrick and looked to be ten or so years older, with a girth that spoke of a man who did justice to his plate. He sported a fine pair of sideburns and a broad moustache. Stopping a foot or so in front of Patrick, he looked him up and down slowly.
‘Morning gentlemen. You planning a revolution like those frogs across the Channel then?’ he asked.
‘Someone’s taken an axe to Roy’s barge,’ Patrick replied, flicking his head sideways.
The officer tucked his thumbs into his shiny belt and peered over the side of the quay. He tutted loudly then cast his eyes around the crowd of men. ‘Anyone know who did it?’
No one spoke.
The police were a fact of life and as such they were tolerated. They stopped runaway horses and pulled bodies from the river but they weren’t to be trusted. No one ever told them anything.
A low-life who sneaked information to the constabulary wasn’t regarded favourably by the local population. The crowd shuffled away, and a few climbed down to help Roy bail out the Mary Ann . Within a couple of moments only Patrick and the
‘Don’t you worry, chum, we’ll soon have her bobbing along good as new,’ one of the lightermen shouted down as he started unbuttoning his jacket.
‘This can’t go on,’ Patrick said, to rumbles of agreement on either side of him. ‘We all know that Roy told Ma Tugman to sling her hook and this is the result.’
Bert Bunton, who was so ancient he could have sailed with Drake, slipped his cap off and wiped his forehead. ‘And much good it did him,’ he said, the leathery skin of his face creasing as he spoke. ‘All e’s got to show for it is a hull clogged with mud.’
Patrick nodded. ‘That’s a fact, but a man can mend a boat. He can’t feed his family if he’s in prison, can he now?’
Ezra Lennon, a regular in the Town of Ramsgate and one of the dock masters who gave out the daily work tickets, stepped forward. ‘Roy’s barge isn’t the first to be stoved in,’ he said. ‘Seth Morton’s Dolphin had its rigging cut and Conner’s had his sails ditched in the river. They’d told Ma to look elsewhere, too.’
Bert’s rheumy eyes flickered into life. ‘That wot I’s saying - Ma and her boys will get you. I’ve been on this ’ere river over forty years, since I was a nipper. In me old dad’s time Popeye Wells and the Shadwell boys ruled, then it was Mad Corky and a dozen years ago Danny Donovan held sway. So if it weren’t the Tugmans, it would be some other fast crew. As I say, it is the way of the river.’
‘Only if we let it be,’ Patrick replied, in a voice that carried over the crowd. ‘You all know where I stand on the Tugmans, but I’m only one man. If we join together they won’t be able to pick us off one by one and they’ll have to move their pilfered goods some other way.’
‘What’s you saying?’ Ezra asked.
‘I’m saying that all of us who are interested should meet in the Town next Saturday and form an association,’ Patrick replied.
Bert pointed a tobacco-stained finger at him. ‘You’re not one of those Chartists are you, Nolan?’ he asked. ‘Cos I ain’t marchin’ on Westminster. Not with my legs.’
Patrick’s manner lightened a little. ‘No. I’m just after getting us to stand together against those who’re trying to take the bread out of our children’s mouths.’
There were murmurs of agreement then, from the back of the crowd, a police officer in a navy, high-collared tailcoat and top hat, pushed his way through.
The officer was shorter than Patrick and looked to be ten or so years older, with a girth that spoke of a man who did justice to his plate. He sported a fine pair of sideburns and a broad moustache. Stopping a foot or so in front of Patrick, he looked him up and down slowly.
‘Morning gentlemen. You planning a revolution like those frogs across the Channel then?’ he asked.
‘Someone’s taken an axe to Roy’s barge,’ Patrick replied, flicking his head sideways.
The officer tucked his thumbs into his shiny belt and peered over the side of the quay. He tutted loudly then cast his eyes around the crowd of men. ‘Anyone know who did it?’
No one spoke.
The police were a fact of life and as such they were tolerated. They stopped runaway horses and pulled bodies from the river but they weren’t to be trusted. No one ever told them anything.
A low-life who sneaked information to the constabulary wasn’t regarded favourably by the local population. The crowd shuffled away, and a few climbed down to help Roy bail out the Mary Ann . Within a couple of moments only Patrick and the
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