Will Thomas: The Black Hand

Eventually, Barker narrowed his search and settled upon the South East India Dock, a branch of the East India surrounded on two sides by five-story warehouses that looked dark and menacing. It was a tea dock, and Ben Tillett was working there. Barker stopped dead in the center of it, among the men moving back and forth unloading a newly arrived clipper from Assam. Raising his arm, he tapped the side of his nose and then led me over to some large crates stacked on one side which screened us from view. Once there, he pulled out his pipe, filled and lit it. It was windy on the dock, and lighting it required hunching over between the crates and applying the vesta quickly. Then he sat patiently and waited. Finally, almost ten minutes later, Ben Tillett slipped in beside us.

“All set?” he asked tensely.

“I was about to ask the same of you,” Barker said from around his pipe stem.

“My boys are ready. Will it be here, then?”

“Aye. As good a place as any I’ve seen. You’ve spoken to Green?”

“Yes, I have, but I’ll have used up all his goodwill if tonight’s set-to gets out of hand.”

“But that isn’t fair,” I couldn’t help saying. “I mean, the Sicilians have been spoiling for a fight for weeks. You’re not responsible for them, or even the workers on the dock. You can’t control every fight as if it were a boxing match and you the referee.”

“Tell that to Green. He doesn’t care for Socialist unionizers like me. We cost him money.”

“How many men have committed for tonight, Mr. Tillett?” my employer asked.

“I’ve got close to a hundred promised, but, to be honest, more like seventy-five will show. Some of them will be talked out of it by their wives. You’re certain the Sicilians won’t bring shotguns or pistols?”

“I shall challenge them with a debt of honor,” Barker responded. “Like a duel, I’ll choose the weapon. Make sure your lads have clasp knives, just in case.”

“They’ve got them. When and where shall we meet?”

“Five thirty, in the corner of the warehouse there.”

“Right. See you then,” Tillett said with a nod, and slipped off.

“Fine man,” the Guv said when he was gone. “It’s good he’s on our side.”

“He’s a Fabian, you know,” I said, needling my employer.

“Aye, well, we can’t afford to be choosy just now.”

“Do we know how many men we’ll have altogether?”

“A little over a hundred, I’d say.”

“Will it be enough, do you think?”

“I believe so. The number of Sicilian men willing to fight against us is finite.”

“You’re sure, then.”

“Well, lad, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

We went back to the office, where Barker sent off another battery of messages. Then he took out his Chinese brushes and ink. He ground the ink and added water, and then made a note in large block letters:

SOUTH EAST DOCK

6:30 TONIGHT

NO GUNS, ON YOUR HONOR

C.B.

This note he put into the hands of Soho Vic, who arrived around four. I knew matters were at a head, for the boy did not try to set my shoe afire or call me inappropriate names. He was more serious than I’d ever seen him.

Barker looked at the boy. “You’re certain about this, Vic? It’s dangerous going into Clerkenwell just now. I could send the lad to deliver it.”

Soho Vic gave me a glare but did not insult me for once. “I’ll do it, sir. You can count on me.”

“Very well. Take it to the kiosk in front of Saint Peter’s Church. No histrionics or displays of bravery, now.”

“No, sir.”

I doubted Vic knew what “histrionics” were, but he had not been allowed to participate in the previous meeting and this was his only chance to get involved. Unfortunately, one look at the note would tell him when and where the battle was going to take place. He would be in attendance and try to get in a blow or two of his own, if only to be able to brag about it afterward.

“Off with you, then. Use the front door and keep a sharp eye out.”

Vic was off like a rabbit. Barker stood and stretched, and then shot his cuffs. I opened a certain drawer in the right-hand corner of my roll-topped desk.

“Should I bring my pistol just in case?” I asked.

“No, lad. We have given our word.”

“Did we promise to not bring them or merely not to use them?”

“If you found you needed it, you would use it,” he reasoned.

I shrugged and closed the desk drawer with misgivings. “I suppose you’re right, though I’ll feel rather naked without it. How do you know they are men of honor? They’re Sicilian criminals, after all.”

“We don’t, but if anyone is found to have violated the terms it will not be us. Besides, I thought you detested firearms,” Barker said.

“I do, but not as much as I detest dying.”

“You’re overfond of your own skin. None of us is indispensable, lad.”

“Cheery thought, that,” I replied.

Barker reached for his hat and stick.

“Are you coming?”

I heaved a sigh. “Yes, sir,” I said. There was no getting out of it.

The sun was starting to set when we arrived at South East India Dock. We stood on the dock, surrounded on two sides by warehouses and on the other two by the bristling masts of anchored ships. Narrow alleyways separated one warehouse from another, and cargo was stacked in crates or in odd shapes covered with canvas, dotting the terrain like small mountains. A mass of men, mostly young, milled about at the south end, getting to know each other by sight. I estimated there were close to a hundred of us.

“Are they ready?” Barker asked Tillett.

“Ready enough. They’re untested, of course, but they’re spoiling for a fight.”

“Have you seen any pistols?”

“No, but I’m not about to start searching them, especially not Hooligan’s men.”

“Point them out to me,” Barker said in a low voice, appraising the crowd.

“That big one there,” Tillett said, pointing out a tall, gangly man with his head shorn close like a convict. “And him,” he continued, indicating a young man with red hair and evil-looking features, who out of sheer fierceness had torn off the sleeves of his coat and shirt. “Those two,” he continued, pointing to a pair of sharp-featured persons, apparently siblings, “and him,” he finished, indicating a large African in a checked suit and cloth cap who stood apart with the hauteur of a panther.

“Is that all? Just the five?”

“No, there are more, but the rest are dispersed among mine. There are thirty or so.”

“How many in all?”

“A hundred fifteen, give or take half a dozen.”

Barker nodded. “Not bad. How are they getting along?”

“Well enough, except for your Frenchmen.”

“The Dummolard boys? What’s the problem?”

“They’ve chosen a crate over there as their base of operations and won’t take orders from me or anyone.”

“You’ve done good work. Let me handle our apache friends.”

Barker moved among the crowd, encouraging them as he went. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before, his military side. I knew he’d seen action in China with Gordon during the Taiping Rebellion.

“Messieurs!” he said to the sour-faced quintet of Frenchmen who sat on a large packing crate, sharpening their knives. “I am glad to see you all here.”

“This had better not be a trick, Barker,” Robert Dummolard spoke for his brothers. “We expect to see Sicilian blood spilt tonight.”

“You will get your chance of that, I’m sure. I want you to know, however, that I will not simply drop a handkerchief and have you all charge at once. This is a game of strategy.”