a winning
streak that saw him empty a quarter of the bottle and grow increasingly
raucous.
“You’re useless,” he crowed as
Mendick called for another card when he had a hand of nineteen, and, “Beat
again!” when Mendick put down thirteen to his seventeen.
After an hour Peter’s speech was
slurred and the level of gin had lowered significantly, so Mendick slammed down
his cards.
“You can’t be this good,” he
said. “You must know exactly what I’m doing!
“What?” Peter looked up, his
eyes hazed by gin. “How can I know that?”
“By cheating.” Mendick pressed
his advantage. “You must be looking at my cards.”
“I’m not.” Peter sounded hurt by
the accusation. He shook a confused head. “You just can’t play good.”
“I know what game I can play,”
Mendick said. “I’ll fight you, by God!” He rose from the chair and lifted his
fists in the approved prize-fighting manner, hoping that Peter would take the
bait and hoping even more that the gin had slowed the his reactions as much as
his speech.
“I would kill you.” Peter
sounded amazed that anyone would willingly choose to fight him. “You’re wrong,
Mr Mendick. I wouldn’t cheat you; we’re fellow Chartists, and you let me out of
the Black Hole. I’m just better at cards than you; have a drink and forget
about it.” He pushed the bottle across the table and spread his hands in a
gesture of reconciliation.
Mendick hit him. It was a
beautiful punch, straight to the point of the jaw, but Peter merely shook his
head.
“What did you do that for? Now
we will have to fight,” he said, and Mendick wondered if he had made a
major mistake. He was experienced in barrack room turn-ups and in the formal
affairs for which Her Majesty had paid him, but Peter was a different
proposition entirely. The prize-fighter was a good five inches taller and
broader than him and was trained and knowledgeable in his brutal art.
The first punch hissed past
Mendick’s head with a sound like a passing cannonball, the second numbed his
upper arm and the third smashed against his chest and knocked him against the
door. He lay there, stunned from the force of the blow as Peter loomed over
him, gesturing for him to rise, but instead Mendick yanked open the door and
fled.
“Hey, come back, Mr Mendick!
Please! If you run away Mr Armstrong will put me in the black hole! Please!
I’ll let you win!”
Mendick ran into the welcoming
night, trying not to listen to Peter bellowing in his wake as he jinked into
the trees that sheltered Chartertown. He winced, rubbing his chest and arm
where the prize-fighter’s fists had caught him; if Peter had that sort of power
when half drunk, he would be unbeatable sober.
Within a few minutes he was
struggling through brittle briars and stumbling over a half-tumbled wall as he
climbed the small knoll where he had stopped only that morning. Looking back,
he saw only darkness, but when he reached the summit he nodded his
satisfaction. The countryside spread out before him like a black sea
interspersed with the twinkling lights of cottages and villages and with one vast
array of lights a few miles to the south. That could only be Manchester, and
ignoring the confusion of paths Mendick struck directly across country, hoping
he could find his way to Ogden’s house.
He had memorised the address Smith
had shown him and had spent the train journey north perusing a map of the
Manchester area, but Armstrong's carriage had driven for a good hour beyond the
town, which Mendick estimated would be around six miles. He would have to find
the city first and then work out where Ogden lived. Mendick hurried, using the
infantryman’s quick marching pace and hoping that he was moving in the right
direction as he repeated the instructions he had been given.
Sergeant Ogden lives in White
Rose Lane in the northern outskirts of Manchester. He is in a cottage within a
walled garden with a single brick shed .
The urban build-up
streak that saw him empty a quarter of the bottle and grow increasingly
raucous.
“You’re useless,” he crowed as
Mendick called for another card when he had a hand of nineteen, and, “Beat
again!” when Mendick put down thirteen to his seventeen.
After an hour Peter’s speech was
slurred and the level of gin had lowered significantly, so Mendick slammed down
his cards.
“You can’t be this good,” he
said. “You must know exactly what I’m doing!
“What?” Peter looked up, his
eyes hazed by gin. “How can I know that?”
“By cheating.” Mendick pressed
his advantage. “You must be looking at my cards.”
“I’m not.” Peter sounded hurt by
the accusation. He shook a confused head. “You just can’t play good.”
“I know what game I can play,”
Mendick said. “I’ll fight you, by God!” He rose from the chair and lifted his
fists in the approved prize-fighting manner, hoping that Peter would take the
bait and hoping even more that the gin had slowed the his reactions as much as
his speech.
“I would kill you.” Peter
sounded amazed that anyone would willingly choose to fight him. “You’re wrong,
Mr Mendick. I wouldn’t cheat you; we’re fellow Chartists, and you let me out of
the Black Hole. I’m just better at cards than you; have a drink and forget
about it.” He pushed the bottle across the table and spread his hands in a
gesture of reconciliation.
Mendick hit him. It was a
beautiful punch, straight to the point of the jaw, but Peter merely shook his
head.
“What did you do that for? Now
we will have to fight,” he said, and Mendick wondered if he had made a
major mistake. He was experienced in barrack room turn-ups and in the formal
affairs for which Her Majesty had paid him, but Peter was a different
proposition entirely. The prize-fighter was a good five inches taller and
broader than him and was trained and knowledgeable in his brutal art.
The first punch hissed past
Mendick’s head with a sound like a passing cannonball, the second numbed his
upper arm and the third smashed against his chest and knocked him against the
door. He lay there, stunned from the force of the blow as Peter loomed over
him, gesturing for him to rise, but instead Mendick yanked open the door and
fled.
“Hey, come back, Mr Mendick!
Please! If you run away Mr Armstrong will put me in the black hole! Please!
I’ll let you win!”
Mendick ran into the welcoming
night, trying not to listen to Peter bellowing in his wake as he jinked into
the trees that sheltered Chartertown. He winced, rubbing his chest and arm
where the prize-fighter’s fists had caught him; if Peter had that sort of power
when half drunk, he would be unbeatable sober.
Within a few minutes he was
struggling through brittle briars and stumbling over a half-tumbled wall as he
climbed the small knoll where he had stopped only that morning. Looking back,
he saw only darkness, but when he reached the summit he nodded his
satisfaction. The countryside spread out before him like a black sea
interspersed with the twinkling lights of cottages and villages and with one vast
array of lights a few miles to the south. That could only be Manchester, and
ignoring the confusion of paths Mendick struck directly across country, hoping
he could find his way to Ogden’s house.
He had memorised the address Smith
had shown him and had spent the train journey north perusing a map of the
Manchester area, but Armstrong's carriage had driven for a good hour beyond the
town, which Mendick estimated would be around six miles. He would have to find
the city first and then work out where Ogden lived. Mendick hurried, using the
infantryman’s quick marching pace and hoping that he was moving in the right
direction as he repeated the instructions he had been given.
Sergeant Ogden lives in White
Rose Lane in the northern outskirts of Manchester. He is in a cottage within a
walled garden with a single brick shed .
The urban build-up
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