Jobe A Tale of Victorian Liverpool

Excerpt from Chapter I

Chapter I 

1893

The high hanging puffs of cloud had long since reflected the last rays of the sun and were now illuminated by a full moon, which glared on the landscape below. The mysterious life of the night stealthily scampered and scurried over clods of earth or through undisturbed thistle and groundsel until distracted from their impulsive errands by a distant, but fast approaching rumble. The vibration quickly swelled to a tremor as horses hooves pounded the ground and ironbound wheels cracked the dry earth, creating minuscule valleys in the surface of the dirt road. The long grass and bracken on either side of the road erupted into life, the two carriage lanterns momentarily illuminating its nocturnal inhabitants, millennia of innate caution thrown to the wind in a desperate bid to escape the immediate vicinity of the reverberating track. The hushed whisper of invisible wings intensified to a throb as a cloud of bats descended, gorging on the crawling multitude incited to a sudden riot of antipathetic activity, a miniature migration which filled the undergrowth until the drumbeat of hooves and mechanical squeaking of the carriage’s axle and wheels grew closer drowning out the secret noises of the night. The four occupants of the carriage, all asleep bar one, passed by ignorant of the chaos each yard of their journey wrought on the passing landscape. 

Jobe woke from a fitful sleep. The flitting and disturbed dreams dissolved into the deep recesses of his subconscious as his eyes opened. He was instantly aware of his surroundings. The lamp in the carriage had been extinguished but his head still rested on Charlie’s knee. He looked up into the shapeless face bathed in moonlight. Charlie smiled down at him. 

“How’s the pain, Jobe lad?” he whispered, removing a damp cloth from the boy’s forehead. Jobe was reminded of his injuries. He steeled himself against the tide of pain that washed through his body as he began to stretch and test his stiff muscles. 

“Why were you planning to scab?” he asked, speaking the words before they or their consequence had formulated properly in his mind. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on Jobe’s and brought his index finger to his lips nodding over at the two sleeping men who had allowed them into their coach. Charlie looked out of the carriage window, the landscape stretched on forever, painted silver blue by the full moon. 

In stark contrast to the opposite journey, was it really only a day or so before, he had lost himself in the vastness of the silent, deserted landscape as it inexorably passed him by, allowed himself to be soothed by the cathartic clip-clop of hooves, the rhythmic rocking of the carriage. He wondered if it was the roof over his head that had allayed his primitive terrors or the presence of the young man who lay across him. A boy who he had known for scarcely two days but who had influenced him in such a manner that he had torn up all of his well-laid plans without a second thought. He looked down at Jobe. How had the boy prevented him from committing the sacrilege of scabbing? And in doing so, led him back to Liverpool, a city where only danger awaited him and his loved ones.

“You ok sitting up, Jobe lad?” he asked, responding to Jobe’s slight nod by carefully helping him into a comfortable upright position before attempting to rub some feeling back into his own numb thighs. They both found themselves looking directly at the two men opposite them. The coach was built for the rough terrain of the moor and the sleeping men were rocked like babes in a cradle, a smart bowler resting on the lap of one, a cloth cap on the other. Charlie looked back out of the window and although he spoke in hushed tones Jobe had no difficulty hearing him.

“Unlike you, it was no accident I found myself heading to Hull, Jobe lad, I was going by design. I needed to earn money and quick,” he snorted in derision.

“I still do, well, who doesn’t, but mine’s not to stave off the rent man or settle a tick bill at the grocers or butchers. I need to earn enough to pay my board to New York, along with my wife and little’un of course,” Charlie felt the need to avert his gaze from the sky and train it on his companion. 

“I’m a marked man, you see. Wanted. Not by the law, you understand. I only wish it was. At least then my wife and little’un would be safe.” He looked again at the two men facing him; ensuring James and Jim were still asleep. After listening to their rhythmic snores for a few seconds he turned back to the night sky.

“I’ve always been an honest man, Jobe lad, but I’ve never worked with honest men. I suppose that’s only natural if you work outside the law.” He paused as if the concept was new to him. “I’ve worked a sight harder than many of those that work inside it mind you!” he continued, bringing his hands up and throwing a few mock jabs and hooks. 

“I’m a fighter see, or used to be, a good one. Bare-knuckle. Travelled all around the country, up and down I did. Never beaten, not fair and square anyway.  Time come when my reputation meant I didn’t have to travel no more. My backers were having to turn fighters away, some from as far afield as Dublin and Glasgow, and still I’d sometimes fight twice in one night! Won a lot of men a lot of money, damn sight more than I ever won for myself, but men are never content, they get greedy, see, always looking for a sure thing.” He paused, as if reflecting on his statement and after a few seconds turned to Jobe.

“Have you ever been to an unlicensed fight, Jobe lad? Dangerous places. Lot of unsavoury elements. The ring-keepers have to be as tough as the fighters, armed with staves and belts to maintain order. Jesus, some of the sights I’ve seen, situations I’ve found myself in! Drained canals, railway tunnels, churches, I’ve fought in them all,” he broke off and grabbed Jobe’s knee in fright as a barn owl swooped within inches of the carriage window, releasing it with a self-conscious smile.

“My last was in the south end, a disused windmill off Park Road. It was billed as my biggest fight; a rematch against this fella from Manchester. I’d first fought him a few years past in a field just outside Salford. He wasn’t a big man, I had more than a few pounds on him, that’s the beauty of the unlicensed game see, no weight restrictions, but this fella, he had the art all right, must’ve caught me with double, treble the punches I managed to land on him. He just didn’t have the strength to put me out. We fought to a standing draw, twenty-five punishing rounds. There’d usually be a riot following a draw. Everyone involved, bookies, backers and boxers would have to look out for their hides when an even contest was called. Not on that occasion, we’d put on such an exhibition, you see. We held each other’s arm aloft before we were both applauded from the ring,” He grew vacant as if lost in the memory, a smile playing across his lips before recovering the thread of his tale.

“The rematch was always on the cards,” he continued. “As I say, it took a couple of years, he, just like me, remained undefeated. It generated so much interest a dummy bout had to be arranged up on Aintree Racecourse, as a diversion like, fellas were actually paid to go up and attend! He’d bulked up a bit and his punches certainly had more power, but I knew from the first bell I had him, he’d slowed see, his reactions couldn’t match his wits. He went from evens to five to one within the space of half a dozen rounds. The ring men had to employ their cudgels and belts to keep back his supporters, they’d bet big on him and were baying for his blood, things could have been so different…” Charlie’s voice broke and his head slumped into his hands. The bench vibrated as Jobe watched the big man’s frame shake from the corner of his eye. Jobe thought back to their conversation on Bert’s wagon, had it really only been three nights ago that he’d bared his soul to the stranger? Charlie had remained in silence throughout Jobe’s monologue and although Jobe hadn’t broke-down there had been moments when the verbal purging had been painful enough to cause the words to catch in his throat. Suddenly uncomfortable looking at the men facing him he fixed his eyes on the roof of the carriage, affording Charlie the time he needed. 

“Good Lord, I can’t remember the last time I cried, mustn’t have been much bigger than a pint pot,” snuffled Charlie, as he wiped his eyes and nose in the crook of, first his left and then his right arm. 

“It was my own corner that done for me. I swung for the cuts man when he began to gouge at an old cut that had opened up on the bridge of my nose, it was only a scratch but he stuck his thumb right in, vicious like.” He unconsciously rubbed at the offending area between his eyes.

“I’d have done for him proper if I’d realised the nefariousness he was masking. I can recall the sharp prick in my back as if it were a bayonet spearing my liver now, but at the time, the end of the fourteenth it was, what with my cornerman coming all Little Jack Horner looking for his plum in my noggin and being focused on finishing the job, it just didn’t register.” He shook his head as if still struggling to come to terms with events. He took in a deep breath.

“Tea’s my only tipple, Jobe lad, and anyone who knows me knows it. I’ve seen the damage grog does to folk since I was knee-high to a quart jug, it’s ravaged my family but I chose to ward it off rather than wallow in it. Well with the laudanum they pumped into my back, it must’ve been more opium than alcohol, I was soon swinging like a barn door in the wind. Of course the crowd thought it was staged, figured I was planning on taking a fall and it didn’t take long for their suspicions to come to fruition. I deserved a medal for managing to stay upright as long as I did!” he exclaimed.

“A lot of folk laid a lot of money on me that night, had spent their winnings in their heads ten times over before watching me crash to the dusty floor. Well I knew there’d be a price to pay alright. Got my wife and little’un away that very night, still bleeding when we got to the little cottage in the country. I was hoping things’d blow over, that I’d be able to assuage the situation once people’s steam had settled. Silly of me, we should’ve stayed away. I contacted an old pal see, they still want their pound of flesh. My wife and little’un, they’re in hiding. I had to secrete them away before I left. If those that want me get wind of where they are…they’ll take them, Jobe lad. Pimp my Liza out. Have her working in one of their brothels. The clock’s against me Jobe lad. I’ve got them a house well out of the way, but they’re alone and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone cottons on to where they are and rats them out.” Jim began to stir as Charlie finished his tale and the first rays of the rising sun began to chase the darkness from the sky. 

“I don’t know what your planning to do on our return but whatever your plans, Jobe lad, I’ll be no good to you in Liverpool.” Jobe looked at Charlie and nodded his understanding as Jim opened his eyes and began stretching. James had slumped onto the big mans shoulder impeding his movements.

“C’mon now James! What is it you take me for, a dock road doxy?” James almost leapt out of his seat. He looked around accusingly at the men sharing the carriage with him before gaining his senses and settling back into his seat, although he continued looking at each man with suspicion, only taking his eyes from them to look down at the pipe he had fished from an inside pocket. Jim looked at his companion and shook his head, before addressing Jobe and Charlie.

“Good morning, Charlie, Good morning, Jobe. I trust you both managed to get some rest? How are you feeling this morning, Jobe?” Jobe brought his hands to his face and head, Charlie’s tale causing him to forget about his wounds until reminded of them. He completed his tactile self-examination.

“I think the sleep has done me some good, thank you Jim. My head doesn’t bang too badly and it feels as if a lot of the swelling has gone down now,” he looked at Charlie for confirmation of his self assessment. Charlie gently took Jobe’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, carefully swivelling it this way and that both to get a better look and to let the encroaching sunlight improve his view. He turned in Jim and James’s direction. 

“I’d definitely say the swelling has reduced a bit, wouldn’t you agree gentlemen?” Jim sat forward in his seat, his clear blue eyes examining Jobe, James continued filling his pipe and simply grunted.

“I’m no doctor but he certainly doesn’t put me as much in mind of poor Joseph Merrick and it can only be a good sign that your headache has receded,” he stated as he settled back into his seat. Jobe didn’t follow the remainder of Jim and Charlie’s diagnosis. He was transported back through time to the cellar in Court Number 4, Marlborough Street. Standing in a bucket of water, his mother’s hand enveloping his, keeping him from toppling over while her other hand scrubbed and gleaned the dirt from his body with an old rag that she periodically dipped into the ever darkening water. She would soothe his protestations with tales of Joseph Merrick. Her sing-song lilt describing the poor man’s terrible afflictions and horrific existence while she completed his ‘stand-up bath’.

“The Elephant Man they called him, Jobe. Gawked at he was, poked and prodded at every funfair and back alley freak show from Lands End to John O’Groats. Ooh if it wasn’t for the gentleness and humanity of Dr Treves, the poor wretch would never have known a second’s peace, and just look at him now, Jobe, a fixture of London high society. A friend of the Princess Alexandra no less.” Her voice and touch were so clear in Jobe’s head that he fancied she was sitting next to him. Exhaustion overcame him and he struggled to focus on the faces in the carriage. He felt as light as a feather picked up in a gale and tossed through time, sharing the same lack of control over his destination or the events he experienced as he passed through them. His head sunk to his chest. Jim noted his abrupt deterioration and broke off his conversation with Charlie.

“We can’t be that many hours from home, let’s get the coachman to stop so we can break our fast.” He poked James in the ribs, much to his companion’s consternation.

“This one here can indulge in his foul habit at the same time, he’ll become a little bit more human following his tobacco fix, not much mind you, but anything is an improvement on the ignorant swine we have in our midst,” James only grunted as Jim banged on the carriage wall to alert the coachman’s attention.

  The sun had risen sufficiently to bask the landscape in a warm glow, drying out the last of the early morning dew and chasing away the last remnants of chill from the air. The horses stamped their forelegs contentedly as they dipped into their nosebags showing no concern for the five humans who stood rolling their hips and stretching their arms taking great exaggerated breaths of the fresh, moor air. The hamper was decidedly empty but both Jim and James flatly ignored Charlie and Jobe’s protestations that they were not hungry. The driver joined them and added what he had remaining in his handkerchief to the meager rations before checking on the kettle again. 

“It’s not much but it’ll suffice until we get back to the city,” said Jim as he divvied up the breakfast.

“What is it you estimate Ed, a couple of hours?” The driver looked up at the sky and then nodded his affirmation as he took the kettle from the fire.

“That’ll see us home before noon, what say straight to Mann Island, see if we can get hold of our ‘sandwich board’ recruiter?” said James in between puffs of his pipe.

“I think the youngster’ll need some medical attention first James, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s a robust lad I’m sure an extra half hour won’t kill him, don’t you see, Jim, this will provide the proof needed to disaffiliate from those would be aristocratic artisans within the Trades Council once and for all,” argued James.

“I’m as eager as you to illustrate the Trade Council’s hand in engaging men to break the Hull strike, James, but the boy’s health must come first.”

Jobe had witnessed enough of the two men’s debates in the short time he had been with them to know the conversation could go on and on. He interceded by painfully clearing his throat. 

“I’m truly grateful to you, Jim and yourself Mr Sexton, it’s no exaggeration to say that you’ve delivered me from deaths door, but once we return to the city I’ve got business of my own, of great importance, that I must attend to immediately. If you could see yourself to doing me one more favour and instruct your driver to deliver myself and Charlie to Vauxhall Road?” Charlie looked at Jobe. Jim and James looked at each other. Uniquely each was ready to accede ground to the other, but neither had anything to say.   

The coach journey had resumed in silence and it wasn’t long before Jobe, although attempting to devise at least the outline of a plan in his mind, had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes and, for a while, drowsily watched as dust-motes danced in a shaft of sunlight before the sounds of the city pulled him fully from his slumber. Realising he was no longer dreaming he grabbed at the door frame and pulled himself to the window to see the enormity of Liverpool College reaching into the sky. He looked along Shaw Street, past the front of the College and into the Pleasure Gardens where he had played so often with his mother. Behind them was his old house on Westbourne Street. Where, in happier times, his mother regaled him with stories of her childhood or anecdotes about her father as she cleaned and cooked, she had always spurned his father’s pleas to hire a maid. He would sometimes come from his study to listen, his huge frame filling the doorway, his booming laughter filling every inch of the high ceilinged rooms. Jobe’s pang of sorrow didn’t last, superseded by the sights, sounds and smells that he had been deprived of for so long. Pain forgotten he indulged in the discord of the streets that overwhelmed his senses. A line of women passed through the smoke caused by the sizzling sausages a fat German was cooking on a coal fired brazier. Each of the women easily balanced a heavy bundle of linen on their heads while managing to communicate with her neighbour above the cacophony of street cries, carriage wheels and the screams of boys and girls. Jobe’s eyes swivelled in a forlorn attempt to take everything in. Hawkers stood under the tan awnings of the chandlers, tailors, grocers and iron mongers that lined both sides of the road beseeching anyone who passed not to miss the unprecedented bargains inside their barrows and baskets, shouting unceremoniously over the respective shop’s proprietors while ignoring their efforts to dislodge them. 

The coach, navigating the midday throng of carts, trams and ambling pedestrians was inexorably following the route he himself had walked on a daily basis, and he realised that he was silently reciting the college song just as he had when completing the journey from the college back to the cellar in the slums, utilising the long walk to commit the Latin verses to memory, his lips and tongue revelling in the attempt to master the unfamiliar words.

The coach turned from the throng of Christian Street onto Gerard Street just as a parade of men, women and children finished dragging a dozen or so worn, flattened mattresses into the road. The children began to jump and wrestle each other onto them as they were thrown to the ground only for the adults to animatedly shoo and man handle them away. Jobe risked sticking his head fully out of the window as the coach deviated around them. He looked back to see one of the men douse the pathetic pile with paraffin before quickly jumping back as a number of lit matches came from the crowd and ignited the impromptu bonfire. Jobe was startled when a voice right next to his ear spoke. He turned to see that James Sexton had come out of his seat to get a better view, his bushy moustache almost brushing Jobe’s ear and his stale tobacco breath almost causing him to retch.

“Fear of the cholera,” he said,

“It’s a pity they don’t make a bonfire of the landlords who spread bronchitis, tuberculosis and whooping cough amongst them…” 

 Jim Larkin pulled him back into his seat before he could finish.

“Will you get your boney backside out of my face James! Sure, haven’t you molested me enough for one day?”

Jobe forced himself away from the window as it reached the junction of Byrom and Gt. Crosshall Street. It would do no good for anybody to see him. He had a lot of thinking, planning and healing to do before he made his presence known. 

Charlie hadn’t forgotten his predicament either. His concern over Jobe’s wellbeing coupled with the conversation of the two men he shared the carriage with had provided him with a semblance of escape, but the veneer of normality faded with every mile covered. The gnawing in his stomach became a constant and his nerves were stretched as tight as a tourniquet until he felt he might explode, unravel, or both, at any second. He found himself, like Jobe, backing away from the window as far as possible. Their travelling companions picked up on the obvious discomfort. James Sexton cleared his throat but Jim Larkin anticipating the oncoming interrogation grabbed a lump of thigh between his huge thumb and forefinger and twisted, ignoring James’ squeal of pain and indignation, as he leant forward and drew the curtains on first one window and then the next. Jobe looked at Jim and felt the peculiar bond that had grown between them strengthen. 

                    *        *        *

Silky readjusted his position in the high backed Chesterfield. He flipped a card across the flat of his knuckles. From his little finger to his index and then back again. He stopped, looked at the card without reading it, and then stared into a fireplace that contained nothing more than a heap of glowing embers, the roaring logs having long since consumed themselves. His mind had matched the raging intensity of the logs and was still afire long after they had become ashes. His gaze crossed to the crate that the Giant O’ had sat on. The Giant O’! Silky couldn’t believe that the real-life, walking, talking bogeyman was actually the giant he’d stood on tiptoes to dip all those years before. It still stung his professional pride. He’d been careless, disregarding the size of the man. Sure that the swaying of the crowd and the little toff who sat fidgeting on his shoulders would camouflage even the most cack-handed attempt at rifling through the morning coat pockets. He unconsciously flexed the hand that had been momentarily crushed in that of the giants. He’d thought his month long liberation from the misery of the mill had come to an end there and then on the George’s Dock. The shock of the thruppenny bit being flicked toward him still hadn’t subsided after all these years. And now he’d been hit by another thunderbolt of a shock. The little toff sitting fidgeting on the giant’s shoulders was Jobe! Silky shook his head wistfully. I bet that clever little bleeder recognised me from the off.

Images and ideas carouselled around his head. Each flaring with brilliance before fading to nothing within the blink of an eye, as if imitating the dying embers of the fire. He struggled to contain and control them in a futile attempt to formulate a plan and put an end to his procrastination. The manifestation of the Giant O’, that the Giant O’ had actually been in the Den was enough, but the news he had imparted that Jobe was free and somewhere in the city! Put ashore on Sunday…Put Ashore! So there’d been no escape, no hunting party. The thought of a hunting party sent his thoughts on another tangent and he involuntary shivered as the Mill Men added their size twelve’s to the legion of boots already marching through the churned up swamp that his mind had become. 

For years Silky hadn’t passed a waking, or sleeping, hour without at least a fleeting thought of the dreaded Mill Men. Enforcers, employed by the mill owners who, when not pacing the factory floor carrying their ‘straight back’, two short pieces of rope bound with wax which they brought down with venom on the backs of anyone they found not bent double and at their work, were tasked with hunting and returning anyone who had the temerity to flee. Following his escape from the mill deep in the valleys of Lancashire, he had lived in constant fear of a rough hand grabbing the back of his neck and dragging him back to the misery of the mill. He’d seen those who had escaped and been captured. Compelled to walk to and from the mill, to work in and to sleep in, rusted shackles that rubbed to the bone, causing the wearer to leave bloody footprints wherever they went until the passage of time cauterised the skin. A punishment diet of black bread and porridge slops resulted in the returned escapee relying on others to share what meager rations they had or forced them to creep out at night, chains silenced by rags, and steal food from the mill owners pigs. Such was the intense belief and fear of being caught that he was powerless to stop his sister from returning voluntarily to the mill. 

“I can’t live like this Silks. The fear and worry’ll put me in the ground before the hunger or cold ever will. It’ll only be two years before I can get a paid job or leave altogether and we can be reunited. We’ll save and go to America.” He hadn’t seen his sister since but had still spent every day looking over his shoulder for the Mill Men. 

He wondered that they hadn’t crossed his mind as he’d stood, weighing the cosh in his hand, waiting to repel whoever had the audacity to invade the Den. Even on becoming aware that it was grown men stumbling around in the dark and not a rival gang, he hadn’t considered the possibility that the Mill Men had to come to apprehend him. He had put down his cosh and lit the oil lamp safe in the knowledge that it would be coppers illuminated by the flickering light. Instead it was the Giant O’, his green eyes reflecting the wan glow of the lamp. 

The image of the Giant O’ returned his trail of thought to Jobe. If he hadn’t escaped there was nothing to stop him from returning to his old stomping ground. Silky couldn’t fathom it. If Jobe was free then surely he would have returned to the Den? To the safety of the gang? Heaven knew they could do with him; they’d sorely missed his influence. Silky kept them together with the promise of a roof over their head and food in their belly, as he had in the past, but the sense of purpose that Jobe imbued within them had withered with his arrest and subsequent sentence. The sense that they were a force for good within their community had diminished, and with it their sense of self-respect and decency. Silky ensured that their was no return to stealing from their own, especially their old speciality of waylaying unaware dockers, but the gang was always a fluid and transient group and Silky’s job in policing them had been made more difficult with the loss of his trusted lieutenants Molloy, who had been sent to the reform ship along with Jobe, and Face, always a critic of Jobe’s maxim of looking after the community, refused to fully adhere to it and so couldn’t rely on an alibi from them when it was needed. Rather than wait for the magistrate to put him in Kirkdale Gaol with the obligatory striped back he had jumped ship to South America. 

The Den was also home to those who sought refuge but were not part of the gang. Local boys who sought sanctuary from the disenfranchisement, degradations and defencelessness of youth. Those that found themselves orphaned or cast off, filthy, starving and crawling with vermin, that hid rather than join their family as they took the last resort and traipsed up Brownlow Hill to the dreaded workhouse or those that were escaping the habitual beatings of irate fathers, step fathers or mothers special friends were all guaranteed somewhere to lay their head. Silky forced nobody to join in what he alluded to as ‘jobs’. The only rule was that they were from Blackstock or the immediate area. The boys knew by a primeval sense who should or shouldn’t be in the Den and woe betide anybody who attempted to feign membership.

 He fumbled the card as one of the gang entered the Den. Recovering it from his lap he looked again at the address and telephone number of Jobe’s father, the Giant O’, embossed in a flowing, gold Coppergate. The boy who had startled him made straight for the breadboard and proceeded to saw off a huge chunk from a loaf. He scattered a couple of items on the overflowing table in search of something to spread on it, then shrugging tore at the bread with his teeth. He turned and looked at Silky, his cheeks bulging. Silky raised an eyebrow quizzically. The boy looked abashed and tried to swallow the chunk of dry bread he was chewing. After finally forcing it down he looked sheepishly at Silky.

“Sorry, Silk’ my stomach thinks my throat has been cut! I missed the sausages this morning and I’ve been right the length and breath of Scotland Road, by God you should have seen the jamboree going on, a docker had brought a monkey up from the docks, he had to barricade himself in the Europa, the women and kids were trying to smash their way in, they were blaming him and his monkey for spreading the cholera and then…” Silky raised the card in one hand and pointed to it with the index finger of the other.

“Oh yeah sorry, Silk’, no sign of him, not a sign. I didn’t ask anyone y’know like you told us I didn’t bring any attention to him but nor could I see any sign of him.” The boy became uncomfortable as Silky sat frozen in his pose, silently looking at him with his index finger pointing at the still raised card. The boy looked first at the floor then at the bread in his hand. Silky remained static, the boy unsure of himself tore another piece from the bread and self consciously began to chew it. Silky lowered the card, shaking his head he returned to restlessly shuffling it back and forth across his knuckles.

“We’ve no jam but there should be some butter on the cold shelf,” he said absentmindedly. 

One by one the human net Silky had cast across the city returned to the Den. Hungry, footsore and with no discernible news of Jobe. 

“Each of you get something to eat and then it’s back out into the wide yonder until we get some word of Jobe, remember now keep your ears and eyes open but your mouths shut.” He ushered the last of the boys back out and then took one last look at the card before depositing in his waistcoat pocket. He sprung from his chair and after deliberating over which jacket to choose from a hatstand draped in silk, corduroy and leather coats, chose a fur lined jacket and swinging it around him like a cape left the Den. He knew there was a telephone kiosk on the corner of Hatton Garden and Dale Street but couldn’t remember if it was a coin box or whether there would be an attendant to take his tuppence and admit him into the kiosk, he hoped it was the latter as he’d had no previous call to use a telephone. 

He strode purposefully towards Vauxhall Road. Decanting those of the lads who were still meandering around Blackstock Street.

“Do I need to be dragging you along by the slack of your trousers,” he threatened along with a few other choice words. As he approached The Eagle, a coach pulled up with it’s curtains drawn. With memories of the Mill Men fresh in his mind he sucked himself into the pub doorway watching with baited breath as a heavy man agilely descended the coach steps. Admonishing himself for his skittishness, he was just about to leave the sanctuary of the doorway when something about the way the man checked his immediate environment raised his hackles. The man stealthily surveyed his surroundings and Silky recognised a hunter, or one who was hunted, in his movements. He forced himself further back into the doorway and watched as the man leaned into the coach and lifted out a smaller figure who he shielded from view with his bulk. Another large but smartly dressed man clambered out afterwards, the first big man moved to shake hands with him offering Silky a glimpse of the smaller of the three. Although most of his face was obscured by a cap Silky couldn’t fail to recognise Jobe. He remained in the doorway until the well-dressed man had re-boarded the coach and it had joined the traffic on Vauxhall Road. Jobe and his companion began approaching the Den. The man cast a weary glance at the well-dressed buck in the doorway but carried on past without a word. The cap or the bulk of the man partially blocking his view couldn’t hide the bruising to Jobe’s face and Silky almost choked trying to disguise his sharp intake of breath. He allowed them to get into the Den and then followed them inside.

Charlie had placed Jobe into the high backed Chesterfield. They both looked up as Silky entered. Jobe sat with the cap in his hand now and Silky could see the grievous wounding to his face, his puffed and yellowing features and his swollen lips, which attempted to form a smile as Jobe recognised his friend.

“Jobe,” said Silky as he walked towards him.

“You’re in my chair,” he said scandalised. The disquiet that Jobe had experienced passing through his old neighbourhood. The two years of brutality and isolation he had experienced on the Akbar. The near death experience on the road home from Hull were all exorcised by the familiar face, the dark eyes and jet black hair that clung to the small skull, the wit and mock dramatics and Jobe broke into a peal of laughter that he was unable to stop, he felt like his lungs were being crushed as the laughter became a maniacal mixture of mirth and misery. Silky half crouched and hugged Jobe to his breast.

“I’ve got so many questions, Silk’. Tommy? me granda’? the gang…” Jobe sobbed incoherently. Silky tried to interject but Jobe didn’t allow him.

“They’ll have to wait, Silky. There’ll be time later but for now we need to do something for Charlie here, his family are in desperate peril they need our help…” Silky winced as Jobe struggled with his words. Emotion, exhaustion and his swollen lips and tongue made him sound like a man destined for Bedlam. He placed his hands on his shoulders.

“You don’t understand, Jobe I’ve got news! The Giant O’, your father! He was here, right here in the Den not two days ago! He came for you!” Jobe shrugged himself free from Silky’s grasp and tried to stand but it was too much and he slumped back into his seat and out of consciousness. 

For once Silky chose not to employ his theatrics. He brought an iron bedstead in the room to Charlie’s attention with a nod of his head. Neither man spoke as they carefully lifted Jobe between them and gently laid him in the bed. Once Jobe was comfortable Silky beckoned the older man over to a stove with a kettle on. Silky maintained his silence as he prepared a pot of tea. Charlie recognised Silky from Jobe’s aside on the road to Hull and decided that if the lad placed his trust in Silky then he would too. He accepted the cup that Silky offered him and after draining half of it in one gulp began to relay the circumstances of his time with Jobe. 

“The wagon was ready to roll see, we were only waiting on the two nags up front to finish their nosebags, when the fixer from Mann Island, heaved this unconscious and bleeding lad onto the floor,” he paused, as if inwardly questioning why he’d allowed such a thing to pass.

“Well I was the first to remonstrate but on returning to his sandwich board, Ted, that’s the fixer’s name y’see, well he was accosted by a giant of a man, why it lent credence to Ted’s story that the boy was in trouble. I actually thought we were doing the lad a turn. The big fella buttonholing Ted was so animated, he looked like he’d be ready to crush the windpipe of the lad laying unconscious at our feet, looked like he could do it with one hand.” Silky’s mouth turned to a shocked circle at mention of the giant of a man who could only be the Giant O’ and Charlie paused, perplexed by the reaction. Silky motioned him to continue with a wave of his hand.

“Well we all wondered what on earth the lad had done, him wearing his sailor’s Guernsey and slacks an’ all, anyway he remained asleep for the first hour or so of the journey and on waking it was plain to see the lad knew no more of his predicament than we did! The rest of the men took him for simple, but I knew he had more to him see, and I knew for sure he wasn’t a Fred, that’s what Ted, the fixer, called him, but it wasn’t until Jobe’s epiphany under the stars, we decided not to spend the night in the boarding house you see,” Charlie visibly shivered almost slopping the dregs of his tea over the side of the cup.

“And it was during the night, while sleeping on the wagon that Jobe came to his senses. We sat under the stars with Bert’s snores in the background, Bert’s the wagon driver you see, he must’ve known about the boarding house from old…well anyway I digress, bad habit of mine, sorry son…that night Jobe told me all about his father’s well-to-do family. Them knobs didn’t like the fact that his mother, God rest her, was one of us from the courts and they schemed and plotted until his father finally broke, condemning mother and son back down here to the slums from the luxury of the hills. He told me how his mother worked and strived to keep him fed and at the college on Shaw Street before the life went out of her. How his grandfather was distraught and in his grief done for his nanna with a jug across the noggin. He told me about the family he found amongst you all here, how you saved him and then how he found himself aboard the Akbar, separated from the protection of his mate…” Charlie struggled to recapture the name. 

“Tommy Molloy,” prompted Silky.

“That’s the fellow, well he got dragged to the Clarence didn’t he, as they both should have, been Catholics and all, but Jobe wasn’t fazed, he used that ripe brain of his, planned to use his good English, protestant name as a shield aboard the Akbar only to find it’d been somehow stripped from him, locked in a hold he was, until he admitted there was no such person as Jobe Warburton, never had been, and he’d always answered to the name Flynn, his mother’s maiden name, and so it was he found himself as Jobe Flynn, a catholic aboard the protestant Akbar. He thinks it was done purposefully and that for reasons unknown to him, whoever was responsible fancied the time was right to get him off the ship in order to finish him off once and for all, and that’s where it comes full circle y’see, he can remember been put ashore with no ceremony whatsoever, still in his Guernsey and slacks and being so overcome that he ran and ran as if the Devil himself were chasing him until he come smashing into Ted the fixer and his sandwich board on Mann Island, the next thing he knows he’s waking up with a wagon full of navvies on their way to Hull to find work.” Charlie accepted Silky’s offer of a refill and reflected on his own words, he shook his head as if needing to correct something.

“Except we weren’t a gang of navvies on our way to find work were we! We were a scuttle of scabs on our way to filch other men’s work. We knew it by God! and so did Jobe, the moment we arrived,” Charlie paused again, shaking his cannonball of a head.

“The lad’s got some jewels on him, no denying that, he refused point blank to even travel to the wharf, didn’t know if it was picketed or anything, just flat refused, made up his mind to walk back to Liverpool there and then. He put a flea in all of our ears and then he was off,” Charlie didn’t allude to the fact that he had secreted the only coins he possessed into Jobe’s pockets.

“I wasn’t long in taking his words to heart, don’t get me wrong I wasn’t happy about scabbing but without Jobe I would have, I’m not proud of it but I know it.” Charlie put down his cup and rubbed his round face and head with both of his hands, emitting a low rumble from deep in his throat. The head rubbing didn’t abate as he approached the end of his tale

“If only I had jewels the size of his I would’ve left with him, there and then. He wouldn’t have met that misfortune on the road. By the time I caught up with him he was almost dead, he’d crossed the path of some striking dockers waiting to bushwhack any scab wagons they could find coming into Hull,” Charlie stopped rubbing his head and made a fist of his right hand, Silky marvelled at the scarred boulder that seemed bigger than his own head.

“I only wished they’d have had the good fortune to come across our wagon,” Charlie looked past Silky as if he were back on the road into Hull scanning the horizon for militant strikers, Silky wondered who the man regaling him was as the benign, shapeless face mutated into that of a monster. Charlie snapped out of his temporary aggression, his face retracting into that of a friendly bear. 

“Well praise be, Jobe had a slice of well overdue luck and he was found by two men, one of them an absolute gentleman by the name of Jim Larkin, apparently he’s big in the Union movement,” Charlie paused waiting for some recognition from Silky continuing when it wasn’t forthcoming. 

“Well they fed and watered us, fixed Jobe as good as they could and brought us here,” Charlie, finally stuck for words, spread his arms in a final flourish,

“And he we are,” he said somewhat self-consciously. Silky had taken in, reflected and digested the information at the speed the big man spewed forth the story, and although his rubber face had betrayed all of his surprise, calculation and thought process he’d remained in silence throughout the story only moving to refill Charlie’s cup. 

“And what of the peril to you and your family?” He asked. Charlie looked at him and reaffirming his trust in the strange lad nodded in agreement with his inner-self.

 “Jobe’s right I’m in a bind alright, although I’ve not asked him for his, or his friends, help in getting out of it and I certainly never reckoned on finding meself here!” he looked around his surroundings seeming to take them in for the first time and found he was surprised by the warm and well furnished room after entering through what could only be described as a hole in a parlour wall.

“Before I left the city I was forced to put my wife and child into hiding,” he paused wondering whether to launch into an account of his leaving the city before shaking his head.

 “It’s another long story which Jobe is more than welcome to share with you. Suffice to say I didn’t reckon on being back in the city so quick. I had a mind to earn some money before returning and spiriting them away to New York. Events have moved so quickly and in such an opposing direction to those I envisaged that I’m not sure of my next course of action.” Silky took the cup from Charlie’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“I’m grateful for what you’ve done for Jobe. If you’re a pal of his you’re a pal of mine. We don’t have many outside of our own circle, which is a big enough one, but if Jobe has took it into his mind to help you then he will. And so will I. For now I suggest you catch up on some sleep and once Jobe wakes we’ll sit, the three of us, and plot our next course of action.” Silky beckoned Charlie over to the bed Jobe slept in. Take your boots off, make yourself comfortable.” He pulled at a shawl draped over the back of a chair and after cracking it like a whip and giving it a few matador like flourishes through the air he lay it on the bed.

“And don’t worry as soon as Jobe wakes I’ll rouse you.”