A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [82]
Jay was disappointed. He thought he had put the proposition well. He pretended indifference. “It’s nothing to me, but I’m surprised—you’re always saying we’ve got to take a firm line with seditious laboring men who get ideas above their station.”
At that moment there was a terrific hammering at the front door. Sir George frowned and Jay stepped into the hall to have a look. A footman hurried past and opened the door. There stood a burly workingman with clogs on his feet and a blue cockade in his greasy cap. “Light up!” he ordered the footman. “Illuminate for Wilkes!”
Sir George emerged from the study and stood with Jay, watching. Jay said: “They do this—make people put candles in all their windows in support of Wilkes.”
Sir George said: “What’s that on the door?”
They walked forward. The number 45 was chalked on the door. Outside in the square a small mob was going from house to house.
Sir George confronted the man on the doorstep. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he said. “That number is a code. It means: ‘The king is a liar.’ Your precious Wilkes has gone to jail for it, and you could too.”
“Will you light up for Wilkes?” the man said, ignoring Sir George’s speech.
Sir George reddened. It infuriated him when the lower orders failed to treat him with deference. “Go to the devil!” he said, and he slammed the door in the man’s face.
He went back to the study and Jay followed him. As they sat down they heard the sound of breaking glass. They both jumped up again and rushed into the dining room at the front of the house. There was a broken pane in one of the two windows and a stone on the polished wood floor. “That’s Best Crown Glass!” Sir George said furiously. “Two shillings a square foot!” As they stood staring, another stone crashed through the other window.
Sir George stepped into the hall and spoke to the footman. “Tell everyone to move to the back of the house, out of harm’s way,” he said.
The footman, looking scared, said: “Wouldn’t it be better just to put candles in the windows like they said, sir?”
“Shut your damned mouth and do as you’re told,” Sir George replied.
There was a third smash somewhere upstairs, and Jay heard his mother scream in fright. He ran up the stairs, his heart pounding, and met her coming out of the drawing room. “Are you all right, Mama?”
She was pale but calm. “I’m fine—what’s happening?”
Sir George came up the stairs saying with suppressed fury: “Nothing to be afraid of, just a damned Wilkesite mob. We’ll stay out of the way until they’ve gone.”
As more windows were smashed they all hurried into the small sitting-room at the rear of the house. Jay could see his father was boiling with rage. Being forced to retreat was guaranteed to madden him. This might be the moment to bring up Lennox’s request again. Throwing caution to the winds he said: “You know, Father, we really have to start dealing more decisively with these troublemakers.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“I was thinking of McAsh and the coal heavers. If they’re allowed to defy authority once, they’ll do it again.” It was not like him to speak this way, and he caught a curious glance from his mother. He plowed on. “Better to nip these things in the bud. Teach them to know their place.”
Sir George looked as if he were about to make another angry rejoinder; then he hesitated, scowled and said: “You’re absolutely right. We’ll do it tomorrow.”
Jay smiled.
20
As MACK WALKED DOWN THE MUDDY LANE KNOWN AS Wapping High Street he felt he knew what it must be like to be king. From every tavern doorway, from windows and yards and rooftops, men waved at him, called out his name and pointed him out to their friends. Everyone wanted to shake his hand. But the men’s appreciation was nothing compared with that of their wives. The men were not only bringing home three or four times as much money, they were also ending the day much soberer. The women embraced him in the street and kissed his hands and called to their neighbors, saying: “It’s Mack McAsh, the man who defied the undertakers,