Will Thomas: Some Danger Involved

"Sorry I missed all the fun. Old Push is a real corker, ain't he?"

I thought of Barker working his way through a bunch of armed ruffians, as easily as if he'd been in his exercise class. "That he is."

Racket flicked the reins and Juno tossed her head and began to move. The last I saw of Albert McElroy that night was his waving hand as the cab rattled down the street.

I went back inside. Barker was just coming into the hall.

"Get some sleep, lad, but stay in your clothes. I might need you. We'll have a very early start in the morning."

Too soon, Barker's hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake.

"Get up and ready," he said. "Take your revolver this time. I want us in the Lane within the hour."

I rose quickly, and loaded my Webley. Then I met Barker in the hall. Mac brought out coffee and croissants with gooseberry jam. There was no telling when we would eat again.

"You think McElroy was telling the truth, that there shall be further trouble this morning?" I asked.

"Last night was just a preliminary skirmish. There will be a larger conflict today, you can count upon it. One doesn't collect an army of troops and just let them sit on their hands, not if one is a competent general."

"Do you think the 'general' was among the men last night? I didn't see anyone I knew."

"Nor I, but I believe he would be recognizable to us, should he show his face. Therefore, he shall hide it. This is one leader who shall not be at the head of his army."

"You know who he is?"

"I have an idea."

"Have you alerted the Jews?"

"I sent a message to Sir Moses an hour ago. All ready, then? Let us be off."

It was dark when I stepped outside, and too early for Juno and Racket to be about. I wondered just how early it was.

"What o'clock do you have?" I asked.

"Shortly after five. It is imperative that we reach Petticoat Lane before it opens. We should find a cab in the Elephant and Castle. Speaking of time, remind me to purchase a pocket watch for you. We can't have you constantly asking the time from everyone. It makes the agency look incompetent."

Middlesex Street was nearly deserted when we arrived, but a few vendors were wheeling in handcarts, overflowing with old clothes. It must have been even more empty the night the Anti-Semite League had arrived, with its sad cargo. Would there really be an attempt at a pogrom here today? At the moment, it seemed unlikely. I'd have called it a rumor, a fantasy, were it not for the events of the night before.

The sun began to rise lazily. Street hawkers filed in and started setting up their booths. Jewesses hung used but freshly washed and ironed clothing on lines and makeshift racks. Food vendors roasted potatoes and boiled milk for cocoa. An enterprising fellow set out a samovar of tea and began a brisk trade immediately, Barker and myself being early in the queue. I began to have doubts about my employer's plan. Business seemed very much as usual in the Lane. Perhaps the affair had spent itself the night before.

They came west from Whitechapel when they finally arrived, from the warren of doss-houses, public houses, and gin shops. They were close to a hundred strong, the offscourings of the district: rampsmen, bruisers and brawlers, sodden with Saturday night liquor and brimming with hate and violence in their yellow, piggish eyes. Like the group in our garden, they were armed with anything that came to hand, from a board pried from a fence in passing, to a spanner for tapping railway wheels. It was an ugly mob, a twin in every way to the ones that had murdered men, raped women, and terrorized children in Eastern Europe, except for one difference: these fellows were English, a race which prided itself around the world for its decency and common sense.

A wail broke from the lips of the vendors when they realized what was about to happen. I even heard a Russian Jew near me mutter the word "Cossack." The inchoate mob collected at the foot of Aldgate High Street, then surged forward with bloodlust in their eyes. They tore apart the first stall they reached. From where I stood, it seemed to explode. Wood and clothes flew up into the air. There was a rending of cloth and the sound of axes. The vendor himself went down, streaming blood, after being knocked on the head with a sailor's belaying pin. His fat wife ran up the Lane screaming in Yiddish. The next three stalls followed in succession. Skulls were being thumped like melons, and Jew and Gentile alike were wrestling in the dirty and rubbish-strewn street.

"I thought you called Sir Moses," I shouted. "Where are the police?"

"No police, lad. The Jews are handling this themselves," Barker replied in my ear. "Keep your wits about you. Remember what I've taught you. Don't use your pistol unless your life is in dire distress."

A fellow leaped by me from behind, knocking against my shoulder. He was a young Jewish fellow with what appeared to be a length of wood in his hand. He ran up to the first rank of leaguers and gave one fellow a good clout on the noggin. Eager hands clutched him, and suddenly he was lifted overhead, amidst a sea of rough hands and angry faces; he was punched and pummeled for his bravery. But he was not the lone brave Jew. More came running, no longer willing to wait passively to be expelled from another country, ready to fight for themselves and their people and a permanent home here. Men were running from all directions, shouting, and suddenly the tide of antagonists crashed over my head, and I was engulfed in the very thick of it.

Soft spots. That was the key for someone as unskilled as myself, Barker said. Only an idiot would try to attack a larger fellow by hitting him in the stomach or the head. But what of the throat? I ducked as a six-footer swung a cricket bat at my head, then gave him a good, solid punch to the neck, right above the collar. The man went down satisfactorily, clutching his throat for air. A second seized my lapels roughly and pulled me off my feet. I clapped my hands hard against his ears, as I'd been taught. The sudden pressure would burst the eardrum and cause a loss of balance. He reeled away and looked disinclined to fight anymore. A third swung back a fence post, intent on cracking my skull, but I ignored the Queensberry Rules and kicked him on the side of the knee. He went down among his brothers, clutching his injured limb.

Just then I got a good wallop on the back of the head. I was down for a moment or two myself, but I shook it off and climbed back into the fray, fists raised. As I stood up again, I saw none other than Brother Andrew McClain standing close by with a fellow in each hand, shaking them as a ratter does two rats before knocking their heads together.

"Hallo, there, Tommy, my boy!" he roared with evident pleasure. "Grand day for a scrap, isn't it?" He laid hands on another fellow, but I knew that there would be no healing involved. When last I saw him, he was singing a hymn as he knocked combatants about.

I'd lost sight of Barker. I stepped up on the lip of a gas lamp and looked across a sea of men beating the tar out of each other for no good reason. It was like a war, only with poor ammunition. Bottles flew, boards cracked, and elbows separated people from their teeth, but there were no fatalities. I couldn't tell if one side was prevailing over the other, and I couldn't find my employer anywhere.

Just then, a strong-looking chap seized my leg and pulled me off the gas lamp, intent on mischief. As I fell into him, I reached for his nose, and slid a thumb into his eye socket. Barker says that the eye is the most sensitive organ of all. This fellow obviously agreed, or would have if he weren't busy holding his face and cursing. My luck went dry then. I met my match with the next man. He was more cautious, and he had a good right cross. We took turns beating on each other and posturing, waving our fists in the air, when there was a sudden, awful din.