Will Thomas: The Black Hand

“Strategy,” the Frenchman repeated, spitting upon the dock.

“I am sending Hooligan’s Irish lads in first. The five of you will lead the second brigade.”

“My brothers demand to go first,” the Frenchman insisted.

“You must trust me, Robert. I have Etienne’s best interests at heart. There will still be plenty of Sicilians for you to fight. But I hope you have no plans to kill anyone. I cannot shield you from a charge of murder. Remember, they cannot regret what they have done to your brother if they are dead.”

Robert turned to his brothers and spoke in French too rapidly for me to follow, telling them no doubt what Barker had said. Immediately there was an uproar among them-angry faces and fingers being pointed. Robert silenced them all with an oath, then spoke in a low voice for a minute or two.

“Very well, monsieur,” he said. “We agree to your terms. But we lead the second attack.”

“We’re glad to have you,” the Guv told him.

“There they are!” A voice sounded behind us; and on the other side of the dock, the Sicilians appeared. Ben Tillett jumped up on a crate nearby, and I saw him anxiously counting heads from this higher vantage point. Barker surveyed our opponents with one hand on his hip and an elbow resting on the Dummolards’ crate. We all leaned forward to watch our opponents.

“No more than ninety,” Tillett cried. “I’d bet my life on it.”

A cheer rose up, a waving of belaying pins in the air.

“I doubt it’ll be that easy,” Patrick Hooligan said behind us. “These Sicilians are crafty devils. Shall I reconnoiter the area to make certain there’s not a second band of them lurking about?”

“No,” my employer replied calmly. “We’ll take them as they come. If they are too strong, or too many, don’t hesitate to pull back.”

“Don’t you worry, Push. But, mind you, when this is over, I expect your help in return. I’ll be making a bid for the Isle of Dogs.”

“You think you can wrest it from Mr. K’ing’s grasp?”

“Why not?” he asked. “The Sicilians were going to do it. I’ll crowd the Chinaman into Limehouse, so all he can do is smoke on his opium pipey and cry over what he once had.”

Barker nodded and deferred answering for the moment, while I wondered if he was going to give the docks over to Hooligan and his grand ambitions. I thought my employer and K’ing had worked out an understanding between them. The Guv turned and pulled out his watch.

“Mr. Tillett,” he rumbled.

“Yes, sir?”

“Yours to command. Come, lad.”

“All right, boys,” the dock foreman shouted. “I want you in lines of ten. Irish first, Frenchmen next, then you dock-workers. Try not to crowd your neighbors!”

“Where are we going, sir?” I asked, as we skirted the armies and walked beside the warehouses.

“To spy out the leader of the opposing force.”

“Is he here, do you think? Marco Faldo?”

“He’s here. He’s bound to be,” the Guv muttered. “Step up, lad.”

I hoisted myself onto a crate that would offer a commanding view of the proceedings. The sun had almost gone down, bathing us all in a bloodred glow. Our opponents were not as physically large as some of our lads, but they were tough and wiry; and I saw more than one dagger in their hands.

“My word, it’s the man in the cape,” I cried, pointing across the dock. He stood, shouting orders; and as he looked across at our forces, I recognized him as the man I’d identified at Scotland Yard. “It’s the man who shot Gigliotti. The Bertillon card must have been false.”

“Or is that the man?” Barker said, pointing a finger of his own. In the rear of the army stood another caped figure, issuing final instructions to the men there.

“Twins!” I cried.

“The Bertillon card was not wrong. Scotland Yard arrested the wrong brother. I suspected there were two of them all along. The measurements were wrong because the twins were born mirror imaged. It’s time,” he stated, looking at his watch. “Six thirty sharp.”

We watched as Ben Tillett crossed the empty dock between the two armies before he came to a stop in the middle. A moment later the first assassin stepped out to meet him. As he approached, he recognized me and gave me a nod.

“Are you ready?” I heard Tillett ask. We had a good vantage point, with both men almost directly in front of us.

“Very ready, signor,” the caped man answered. “The question is, are you ready?”

“We are. May we have your word you have no firearms?”

The Sicilian shook his head. “No firearms. We don’t need them to teach a few Englishmen a lesson.”

The two men turned and walked back to their armies. I could feel the tension in the air. Tillett turned and pointed at the Sicilians with his belaying pin. He bawled a sound, unintelligible to my ear, and Hooligan’s gang bellowed it back. They charged past him, weapons raised. Somewhere in the very middle I saw Patrick Hooligan, looking like he was having the time of his life.

The Sicilians did not charge, but waited upon events, which worried me. What did they have up their sleeves? I found out as soon as the Irish crashed into the enemy lines. Or didn’t crash at all, actually. To a man, they came to a stop and abruptly turned around, with crafty smiles on their faces. Hooligan and his boys had gone with the higher bidder. They were deserters. I should have remembered my history. If memory serves, the Irish played this same trick against Edward Longshanks six hundred years ago.

“We’ve been outfoxed, sir,” I yelled. “Now what do we do? We’re outnumbered by dozens!”

“We accept it and move on,” Barker answered. He called to the caped Sicilians, “You may have them, sirs. We have no need of turncoats.”

Tillett bellowed again, and a second later the assassins gave answering cries. Our army trotted forward, led by the Dummolards, who waved daggers in the air. The two sides crashed together in front of us, with the sound of wood against wood and body against body. There were cries and groans. Weapons fell to the ground and were quickly picked up, and knives slashed at human flesh.

“Come, lad,” Barker said, jumping off the crate into the thick of the battle. The first mafiusu he encountered he spun around and dropped upon the pavement.

I knew better than to think I was going to be merely a spectator. I jumped down, avoided a blade aimed in my direction, and brought the brass ball of my malacca cane down upon the shoulder of my assailant. It wasn’t quite enough to stop him, so I tried it again; and when he raised his arm to protect himself, I smote him in the ribs.

Just then a board broke over my left elbow, rendering it momentarily numb. I kicked out at a knee, however, and knocked the fellow down; but there was another to take his place. And another. I was quickly surrounded by fighting men.

As I fought with a Sicilian dockworker armed with a marlinespike, he suddenly tripped beside a large crate, falling heavily to the dock. I was debating whether to give him a kick when he gave a sharp cry and was pulled backward under a side of the crate. Over the fighting, I thought I heard a sound of pounding beneath us. Stepping around the side of the crate, I found a knothole and peered inside. Then I spoke into it.

“Nice factory you’ve got here, Vic. How many have your boys caught so far?”

“Free,” came the response, “but I ’ope to improve if you’ll quit discouraging customers by ’angin’ ’roun’ me box, fathead. Unless you’d like to step in front and investigate the operation first’and. Otherwise, hop it!”

I had to hand it to Soho Vic. He’s very resourceful. I couldn’t fathom how he knew about the empty crate so quickly after Barker had chosen this dock. Somehow he’d found a way to even the odds for his gang. He didn’t go out into their dangerous world. He dragged people into his. I debated informing Barker, knowing he didn’t want Soho Vic or his boys on the dock. However, the brawl was far from over yet.