A Place Called Freedom (1995)

13

SHYLOCK WORE WIDE TROUSERS, A LONG BLACK GOWN and a red three-cornered hat. The actor was bloodcurdlingly ugly, with a big nose, a long double chin, and a slitted mouth set in a permanent one-sided grimace. He came on stage with a slow, deliberate walk, the picture of evil. In a voluptuous growl he said: “Three thousand ducats.” A shudder went through the audience.

Mack was spellbound. Even in the pit, where he stood with Dermot Riley, the crowd was still and silent. Shylock spoke every word in a husky voice between a grunt and a bark. His eyes stared brightly from under shaggy eyebrows. “Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.…”

Dermot whispered in Mack’s ear: “That’s Charles Macklin—an Irishman. He killed a man and stood trial for murder, but he pleaded provocation and got off.”

Mack hardly heard. He had known there were such things as theaters and plays, of course, but he had never imagined it would be like this: the heat, the smoky oil lamps, the fantastic costumes, the painted faces, and most of all the emotion—rage, passionate love, envy and hatred, portrayed so vividly that his heart beat as fast as if it were real.

When Shylock found out that his daughter had run away, he hurtled on stage with no hat, hair flying, hands clenched, in a perfect fury of grief, screaming “You knew!” like a man in the torment of hell. And when he said “Since I am a dog, beware my fangs!” he darted forward, as if to lunge across the footlights, and the entire audience flinched back.

Leaving the theater, Mack said to Dermot: “Is that what Jews are like?” He had never met a Jew, as far as he knew, but most people in the Bible were Jewish, and they were not portrayed that way.

“I’ve known Jews but never one like Shy lock, thank God,” Dermot replied. “Everyone hates a moneylender, though. They’re all right when you need a loan, but it’s the paying it back that causes the trouble.”

London did not have many Jews but it was full of foreigners. There were dark-skinned Asian sailors called lascars; Huguenots from France; thousands of Africans with rich brown skin and tightly curled hair; and countless Irish like Dermot. For Mack this was part of the tingling excitement of the city. In Scotland everyone looked the same.

He loved London. He felt a thrill every morning when he woke up and remembered where he was. The city was full of sights and surprises, strange people and new experiences. He loved the enticing smell of coffee from the scores of coffeehouses, although he could not afford to drink it. He stared at the gorgeous colors of the clothes—bright yellow, purple, emerald green, scarlet, sky blue—worn by men and women. He heard the bellowing herds of terrified cattle being driven through the narrow streets to the city’s slaughterhouses, and he dodged the swarms of nearly naked children, begging and stealing. He saw prostitutes and bishops, he went to bullfights and auctions, he tasted banana and ginger and red wine. Everything was exciting. Best of all, he was free to go where he would and do as he liked.

Of course he had to earn his living. It was not easy. London swarmed with starving families who had fled from country districts where there was no food, for there had been two years of bad harvests. There were also thousands of hand-loom silk weavers, put out of work by the new northern factories, so Dermot said. For every job there were five desperate applicants. The unlucky ones had to beg, steal, prostitute themselves or starve.

Dermot himself was a weaver. He had a wife and five children living in two rooms in Spitalfields. In order to get by they had to sublet Dermot’s workroom, and Mack slept there, on the floor, beside the big silent loom that stood as a monument to the hazards of city life.

Mack and Dermot looked for work together. They sometimes got taken on as waiters in coffeehouses, but they lasted only a day or so: Mack was too big and clumsy to carry trays and pour drinks into little cups, and Dermot, being proud and touchy, always insulted a customer sooner or later. One day Mack was taken on as a footman in a big house in Clerkenwell, but he quit next morning after the master and mistress of the house asked him to get into bed with them. Today they had got portering work, carrying huge baskets of fish in the waterfront market at Billingsgate. At the end of the day Mack had been reluctant to waste his money on a theater ticket, but Dermot swore he would not regret it. Dermot had been right: it was worth twice the price to see such a marvel. All the same Mack worried about how long it could take him to save enough money to send for Esther.

Walking east from the theater, heading for Spitalfields, they passed through Covent Garden, where whores accosted them from doorways. Mack had been in London almost a month, and he was getting used to being offered sex at every corner. The women were of all kinds, young and old, ugly and beautiful, some dressed like fine ladies and others in rags. None of them tempted Mack, though there were many nights he thought wistfully of his lusty cousin Annie.

In the Strand was the Bear, a rambling whitewashed tavern with a coffee room and several bars around a courtyard. The heat of the theater had made them thirsty, and they went inside for a drink. The atmosphere was warm and smoky. They each bought a quart of ale.

Dermot said: “Let’s take a look out the back.”

The Bear was a sporting venue. Mack had been here before, and he knew that bearbaiting, dogfights, sword fights between women gladiators and all kinds of amusements were held in the backyard. When there was no organized entertainment the landlord would throw a cat into the duck pond and set four dogs on it, a game that generated uproarious laughter among the drinkers.

Tonight a prizefighting ring had been set up, lit by numerous oil lamps. A dwarf in a silk suit and buckled shoes was haranguing a crowd of drinkers. “A pound for anyone who can knock down the Bermondsey Bruiser! Come on, my lads, is there a brave one among you?” He turned three somersaults.

Dermot said to Mack: “You could knock him down, I’d say.”

The Bermondsey Bruiser was a scarred man wearing nothing but breeches and heavy boots. He was shaved bald, and his face and head bore the marks of many fights. He was tall and heavy, but he looked stupid and slow. “I suppose I could,” Mack said.

Dermot was enthusiastic. He grabbed the dwarf by the arm and said: “Hey, short-arse, here’s a customer for you.”

“A contender!” the dwarf bellowed, and the crowd cheered and clapped.

A pound was a lot of money, a week’s wages for many people. Mack was tempted. “All right,” he said.

The crowd cheered again.

“Watch out for his feet,” said Dermot. “There’ll be steel in the toes of his boots.”

Mack nodded, taking off his coat.

Dermot added: “Be ready for him to jump you as soon as you get in the ring. There’ll be no waiting for a signal to begin, mind you.”

It was a common trick in fights between miners down the pit. The quickest way to win was to start before the other was ready. A man would say: “Come on and fight in the tunnel where there’s more room,” then hit his opponent as he stepped across the drainage ditch.

The ring was a rough circle of rope about waist height, supported by old wooden staves hammered into the mud. Mack approached, mindful of Dermot’s warning. As he lifted his foot to step over the rope, the Bermondsey Bruiser rushed him.

Mack was ready for it, and he stepped back out of reach, catching a glancing blow to his forehead from the Bruiser’s massive fist. The crowd gasped.

Mack acted without thinking, like a machine. He stepped quickly to the ring and kicked the Bruiser’s shin under the rope, causing him to stumble. A cheer went up from the spectators, and Mack heard Dermot’s voice yelling: “Kill him, Mack!”

Before the man could regain his balance, Mack hit him on each side of the head, left and right, then once more on the point of the chin with an uppercut that had all the force of his shoulders behind it. The Bruiser’s legs wobbled and his eyes rolled up, then he staggered back two steps and fell flat on his back.

The crowd roared their enthusiasm.

The fight was over.

Mack looked at the man on the floor and saw a ruined hulk, damaged and good for nothing. He wished he had not taken him on. Feeling deflated, he turned away.

Dermot had the dwarf in an armlock. “The little devil tried to run away,” he explained. “He wanted to cheat you of your prize. Pay up, long-legs. One pound.”

With his free hand the dwarf took a gold sovereign from a pocket inside his shirt. Scowling, he handed it to Mack.

Mack took it, feeling like a thief.

Dermot released the dwarf.

A rough-faced man in expensive clothes appeared at Mack’s side. “That was well done,” he said. “Have you fought much?”

“Now and again, down the pit.”

“I thought you might be a miner. Now listen, I’m putting on a prizefight at the Pelican in Shadwell next Saturday. If you want the chance of earning twenty pounds in a few minutes, I’ll put you up against Rees Preece, the Welsh Mountain.”

Dermot said: “Twenty pounds!”

“You won’t knock him down as quickly as you did this lump of wood, but you’ll have a chance.”

Mack looked at the Bruiser, lying in a useless heap. “No,” he said.

Dermot said: “Why the devil not?”

The promoter shrugged. “If you don’t need the money …”

Mack thought of his twin, Esther, still carrying coal up the ladders of Heugh pit fifteen hours a day, waiting for the letter that would release her from a lifetime of slavery. Twenty pounds would pay her passage to London—and he could have the money in his hand on Saturday night

“On second thought, yes,” Mack said.

Dermot clapped him on the back. “That’s me boy,” he said.