The Excursion Train

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1852

They came in droves, converging on Paddington Station from all parts of the capital. Costermongers, coal-heavers, dustmen, dock labourers, coachmen, cab drivers, grooms, glaziers, lamplighters, weavers, tinkers, carpenters, bricklayers, watermen, and street sellers of everything from rat poison to pickled whelks, joined the human torrent that was surging towards the excursion train. Inevitably, the crowd also had its share of thieves, pickpockets, card-sharps, thimble riggers and prostitutes. A prizefight of such quality was an increasingly rare event. It was too good an opportunity for the low life of London to miss.

There was money to be made.

Extra ticket collectors were on duty to make sure that nobody got past the barrier without paying, and additional railway policemen had been engaged to maintain a degree of order. Two locomotives stood ready to pull the twenty-three carriages that were soon being filled by rowdy spectators. The excitement in the air was almost tangible.

Sam Horlock looked on with a mixture of interest and envy.

'Lucky devils!' he said.

'All I see is danger,' complained Tod Galway, the guard of the train. 'Look how many there are, Sam – all of them as drunk as bleedin' lords. There'll be trouble, mark my words. Big trouble. We should never have laid on an excursion train for this rabble.'

'They seem good-natured enough to me.'

'Things could turn ugly in a flash.'

'No,' said Horlock, tolerantly. 'They'll behave themselves. We'll make sure of that. I just wish that I could join them at the ringside. I've a soft spot for milling. Nothing to compare with the sight of two game fighters, trying to knock the daylights out of each other. It's uplifting.'

Sam Horlock was one of the railway policemen deputed to travel on the train. Like his colleagues, he wore the official uniform of dark, high-necked frock coat, pale trousers and a stovepipe hat. He was a jovial man in his forties, short, solid and clean-shaven. Tod Galway, by contrast, was tall, thin to the point of emaciation, and wearing a long, bushy, grey beard that made him look like a minor prophet. A decade older than his companion, he had none of Horlock's love of the prize ring.

'The Fancy!' he said with disgust, spitting out the words. 'That's what they calls 'em. The bleedin' Fancy! There's nothing fancy about this load of ragamuffins. They stink to 'igh 'eaven. We're carryin' the dregs of London today and no mistake.'

'Be fair, Tod,' said Horlock. 'They're not all riff-raff, crammed into the third-class carriages. We've respectable passengers aboard as well in first and second class. Everyone likes the noble art.'

'What's noble about beatin' a man to a pulp?'

'There's skill involved.'

'Pah!'

'There is. There's tactics and guile and raw courage. It's not just a trial of brute strength.'

'I still don't 'old with it, Sam.'

'But it's manly.'

'It's against the bleedin' law, that's what it is.'

'More's the pity!'

'The magistrates ought to stop it.'

'By rights, they should,' agreed Horlock with a grin, 'but they got too much respect for the sport. My guess is that half the magistrates of Berkshire will be there in disguise to watch the contest.'

'Shame on them!'

'They don't want to miss the fun, Tod. Last time we had a fight like this was six or seven years ago when Caunt lost to Bendigo. Now that was milling of the highest order. They went toe to toe for over ninety gruelling rounds, the pair of them, drooping from exhaustion and dripping with blood.'

'Yes – and what did that do to the spectators?'

'It set them on fire, good and proper.'

'That's my worry,' admitted Galway, watching a trio of boisterous navvies strut past. 'These buggers are bad enough before the fight. Imagine what they'll be like afterwards when their blood is racing and their passions is stoked up. I fear for my train, Sam.'

'There's no need.'

'Think of the damage they could cause to railway property.'

'Not while we're around.'

'We're carryin' over a thousand passengers. What can an 'andful of policemen do against that lot?'

'Ever seen a sheepdog at work?' asked Horlock, hands on hips. 'If it knows its job, one dog can keep a flock of fifty under control. That's what we are, Tod. Sheepdogs of the Great Western Railway.'

'There's only one problem.'

'What's that?'

'You're dealing with wild animals – not with bleedin' sheep.'

When the excursion train pulled out of Paddington in a riot of hissing steam and clanking wheels, it was packed to capacity with eager boxing fans. There were two first-class carriages and three second-class but the vast majority of passengers were squeezed tightly into the open-topped third-class carriages, seated on hard wooden benches yet as happy as if they were travelling in complete luxury. As soon as the train hit open country, rolling landscape began to appear on both sides but it attracted little attention. All that the hordes could see in their mind's eye was the stirring spectacle that lay ahead of them. Isaac Rosen was to take on Bill Hignett in a championship contest.

In prospect, the fight had everything. It was a match between two undefeated boxers at the height of their powers. Rosen worked in a Bradford slaughterhouse where his ferocity had earned him his nickname. Hignett was a giant Negro who toiled on a Thames barge. It was a case of Mad Isaac versus the Bargeman. North versus South. White versus Black. And – to add some real piquancy – Jew versus Christian. Nobody could remain impartial. The London mob was going to cheer on Bill Hignett and they were baying for blood. As flagons of beer were passed around thirsty mouths, tongues were loosened and predictions became ever more vivid.

'The Bargeman will tap his claret with his first punch.'

'Then knock his teeth down his Jewish throat.'

''E'll 'it Mad Isaac all the way back to Bradford.'

'And slaughter the Yid!'

Such were the universally held opinions of the experts who occupied every carriage. In praising Bill Hignett, they denigrated his opponent, swiftly descending into a virulent anti-semitism that grew nastier with each mile they passed. By the time they reached their destination, they were so certain of the outcome of the fight that they indulged in premature celebrations, punching the air in delight or clasping each other in loving embraces. Anxious to be on their way, they poured out of the excursion train as if their lives depended on it.

There was still some way to go. The field in which the fight was being held was over three miles away from Twyford Station but the fans made no complaint about the long walk. Guides were waiting to conduct them to the site and they fell gratefully in behind them. Some began to sing obscene ditties, others took part in drunken horseplay and one lusty young sailor slipped into the bushes to copulate vigorously with a buxom dolly-mop. There was a prevailing mood of optimism. Expectations were high. The long column of tumult began to wend its way through the Berkshire countryside.

Tod Galway was pleased to have got rid of his troublesome cargo but his relief was tempered by the thought that they would have to take the passengers back to London when they were in a more uncontrollable state. As it was, he found a man who was too inebriated to move from one of the third-class carriages, a second who was urinating on to the floor and a third who was being violently sick over a seat. He plucked at his beard with desperation.

'They've got no respect for company property,' he wailed.

'We're bound to have a few accidents, Tod,' said Sam Horlock, ambling across to him. 'Take no notice.'

'I got to take notice, Sam. I'm responsible.'

'So am I – worse luck. I'd give anything to be able to see the Bargeman kick seven barrels of shit out of Mad Isaac. Do you think anyone would notice if I sneak off?'

'Yes,' said Galway, 'and that means you'd lose your job.'

'Be almost worth it.'

The guard was incredulous. 'You taken leave of your senses?'

'This fight is for the championship, Tod.'

'I don't care if it's for that Koh-i-noor Bleedin' Diamond what was give to Queen Victoria. Think of your family, man. You got mouths to feed. What would your wife and children say if you got sacked for watchin' a prizefight?' Horlock looked chastened. 'I know what my Annie'd say and I know what she'd do. If I threw my job away like that, my life wouldn't be worth livin'.'

'It was only a thought.'

'Forget it. I'll give you three good reasons why you ought to 'ang on to a job with the Great Western railway. First of all-'

But the guard got no further. Before he could begin to enumerate the advantages of employment by the company, he was interrupted by a shout from the other end of the train. A young railway policeman was beckoning them with frantic semaphore.

Galway was alarmed. 'Somethin' is up.'

'Just another drunk, I expect. We'll throw him out.'

'It's more serious than that, Sam. I can tell.'

'Wait for me,' said horlock as the guard scurried off. 'What's the hurry?' He fell in beside the older man. 'Anybody would think that one of the engines was on fire.'

The policeman who was gesticulating at them was standing beside a second-class carriage near the front of the train. His mouth was agape and his cheeks were ashen. Sweat was moistening his brow. As the others approached, he began to jabber.

'I thought he was asleep at first,' he said.

'Who?' asked the guard.

'Him – in there.'

'What's up?' asked Horlock, reaching the carriage.

The policeman pointed. 'See for yourself, Sam.'

He stood back so that Horlock and Galway could peer in through the door. Propped up in the far corner was a stout middle-aged man in nondescript clothing with his hat at a rakish angle. His eyes were open and there was an expression of disbelief on his face. A noisome stench confirmed that he had soiled himself. Galway was outraged. Horlock stepped quickly into the carriage and shook the passenger by the shoulder so that his hat fell off.

'Time to get out now, sir,' he said, firmly.

But the man was in no position to go anywhere. His body fell sideward and his head lolled back, exposing a thin crimson ring around his throat. The blood had seeped on to his collar and down the inside of his shirt. When he set out from London, the passenger was looking forward to witnessing a memorable event. Somewhere along the line, he had become a murder victim.

'This is dreadful!' cried Tod Galway, recoiling in horror.

'Yes,' said Horlock, a wealth of sympathy in his voice. 'The poor devil will never know who won that fight now.'