A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [72]
The captain was a thin, middle-aged man with a big red nose. He smelled of rum. “Finished?” he said. “You’re quicker than the usual gangs. What’s the tally?”
“Six hundred score, all but ninety-three,” the first mate said, and Mack nodded. They counted in scores, or twenties, because each man was paid a penny per score.
He beckoned them inside and sat down with an abacus. “Six hundred score less ninety-three, at sixteen pence per score …” It was a complicated sum, but Mack was used to being paid by the weight of coal he produced, and he could do mental arithmetic when his wages depended on it.
The captain had a key on a chain attached to his belt. He used it to open a chest that stood in the corner. Mack stared as he took out a smaller box, put it on the table, and opened it. “If we call the odd seven sacks a half score, I owe you thirty-nine pounds fourteen shillings exactly.” And he counted out the money.
The captain gave him a linen bag to carry it in and included plenty of pennies so that he could share it out exactly among the men. Mack felt a tremendous sense of triumph as he held the money in his hands. Each man had earned almost two pounds and ten shillings—more in two days than they got for two weeks with Lennox. But more important, they had proved they could stand up for their rights and win justice.
He sat cross-legged on the deck of the ship to pay the men out. The first in line, Amos Tipe, said: “Thank you, Mack, and God bless you, boy.”
“Don’t thank me, you earned it,” Mack protested.
Despite his protest the next man thanked him in the same way, as if he were a prince dispensing favors.
“It’s not just the money,” Mack said as a third man, Slash Harley, stepped forward. “We’ve won our dignity, too.”
“You can have the dignity, Mack,” said Slash. “Just give me the money.” The others laughed.
Mack felt a little angry with them as he continued to count out the coins. Why could they not see that this was more than a matter of today’s wages? When they were so stupid about their own interests he felt they deserved to be abused by undertakers.
However, nothing could mar his victory. As they were all rowed to shore the men began lustily to sing a very obscene song called “The Mayor of Bayswater,” and Mack joined in at the top of his voice.
He and Dermot walked to Spitalfields. The morning fog was lifting. Mack had a tune on his lips and a spring in his step. When he entered his room a pleasant surprise was waiting for him. Sitting on a three-legged stool, smelling of sandalwood and swinging a shapely leg, was Peg’s red-haired friend Cora, in a chestnut-colored coat and a jaunty hat.
She had picked up his cloak, which normally lay on the straw mattress that was his bed, and she was stroking the fur. “Where did you get this?” she said.
“It was a gift from a fine lady,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” she said. “If you wash your face you can walk out with me—that is, if you don’t have to go to tea with any fine ladies.”
He must have appeared doubtful, for she added: “Don’t look so startled. You probably think I’m a whore, but I’m not, except in desperation.”
He took his sliver of soap and went down to the standpipe in the yard. Cora followed him and watched as he stripped to the waist and washed the coal dust from his skin and hair. He borrowed a clean shirt from Dermot, put on his coat and hat, and took Cora’s arm.
They walked west, through the heart of the city. In London, Mack had learned, people walked the streets for recreation the way they walked the hills in Scotland. He enjoyed having Cora on his arm. He liked the way her hips swayed so that she touched him every now and again. Because of her striking coloring and her dashing clothes she attracted a lot of attention, and Mack got envious looks from other men.
They went into a tavern and ordered oysters, bread and the strong beer called porter. Cora ate with gusto, swallowing the oysters whole and washing them down with drafts of dark ale.
When they went out again