The Devil's Ribbon by D. E. Meredith Read Free Book Online Page A

blackened tree stumps were all that was left of primordial swamp – now drained, pummelled, and transformed into the docks of the greatest city on earth. London.
    Oyster catchers skirled and seagulls screamed, as barges lolled past, sails unfurled, sculls sliced through the water like swords and Russian ships from Memel and St Petersburg lugged their way to the artificial lakes, filled with wine, barrels of porter, brandy. Meanwhile, leaningagainst a wall, John O’Rourke was dressed in a shabby velvet jacket, sucking on his pipe, oblivious to the clatter of carts around him, the roar of a train overhead, the stevedores and dockworkers hollering, as crates crashed to ground, ropes snapped. He was concentrating hard as he unravelled a scroll of paper, ignoring a boy who was begging at his heels and an old sailor, who had a bright red parrot on his shoulder and was doing the damnedest jig. A little along the way, foremen were shouting from a roster and those who couldn’t hear their names were clambering on each other, waving their hands, desperate for any kind of work.
    O’Rourke glanced briefly in their direction, knowing that when it came to politics, men who were starving, with nothing to lose, were ripe for the picking. He checked his own worn pockets for a few florins to give to the shop steward, who he’d quote in an article soon to be penned. O’Rourke wrote like a scholar, and his lip curled at Mr Hecker’s, the mill owner, dreadful use of grammar, but that was the English for you.
Philistines, the lot of ’em, yer honour
. But the rehash, by the time he’d embellished it for the second edition of
An Glor,
would set these slums alight. This foreign land of belching smoke would bend to Irish will, sooner than it thought, if things went according to plan.
    A tap on his shoulder and O’Rourke swung around to find Damien McCarthy, not his usual fresh-faced self but bug-eyed and haggard.
    ‘Jesus, Damien. You look terrible and you don’t smell too good, either.’
    ‘I’m done in. I’ve not been home since our meeting at The Flask. I’ve been walking the streets for hours, thinking about what’s going to happen. We’re really going to do it this time, aren’t we, John?’
    O’Rourke nodded curtly, shoving the scroll at his friend. ‘Read it, Damien. If you should have any doubts …’
    ‘I don’t have any doubts, John. Sure, it was just a matter of when. So,’ said Damien, ‘what’s all this about?’
    ‘You’d hardly call the man a poet,’ sneered O’Rourke, ‘but he makes his point all right.’
    Damien flattened the paper with his hand and read –
    From the Office of: Mr Tobias Hecker, Esquire
    Salmon Lane
    Limehouse.
     
    To Whomever It May Concern:
    Irish workers have recently requested the following – arm guards, a penny rise in wages, compensation for machine injuries incurred whilst on the properties what belongs to Mr Hecker and … here’s the nub of it … one Sunday off a month.
    Mr Tobias Hecker – Philanthropist, Most Charitable at Heart – says there will be no time off. Not now, not never and more’s to the point that a
NAIL
this
VERY MORNING
was found in one of his Custard Creams and forthwith, the mill gates will be locked.
    Signed, Your Most Eminent etc. etc.
    O’Rourke snatched the leaflet back. ‘Mr Hecker has already advertised the jobs to Poles, Italians, even the Chinks and Negroes. Most of the Irish will be gathered at the usual tavern by now.’
    ‘I know the one. The Salty Dog?’
    ‘Where our boys will be supping their pints but with a bit of organising, God Knows, they’ll be willing to fight. I’ll get the shop steward, O’Reilly, to get the men working on banners. O’Brian has blunderbussers, a couple of rifles, gun powder. He keeps it all in the sacristy at the Sacred Heart, would you believe? So, are you with me?’
    ‘I’m with you, John, but what about O’Brian?’
    ‘It was his idea in the first place. O’Reilly, the shop steward, is one