Rebellion

Against his better judgement Hawkwood had allowed Jago to drag him into the tent, where they’d been confronted by the reek of stale beer and even staler bodies and a roped-off square of canvas around which a couple of dozen rowdy onlookers had, over the course of the afternoon, watched a succession of rough-hewn labourers and jack-the-lads try their hand at pummelling another man senseless; their incentive being the three guineas on offer if they managed to remain upright for the duration of the three two-minute rounds, and a five-guinea purse if they succeeded in, as the booth owner put it in his sales pitch, knocking the champion on to his arse.

Not that any of them had stood a cat in hell’s chance. Boyd, a stocky, broad-bellied mauler with a balding scalp, broken nose and knuckles lined with calluses, had stood there knowingly, hands on his hips, watching as, one by one, his deflated opponents were carried from the ring in varying degrees of pain and disability, very few of them having managed to land so much as one decent punch. Looking on, it had been hard to fathom why any man in his right mind would have wanted to climb over the ropes and take him on in the first place.

It had been the late end of the afternoon. The number of prospective challengers had gradually dwindled away and the tout had been on the verge of calling it a day, when the slight built, strangely dressed figure stepped out of the audience and made his way to the ringside.

Someone close by had let go a snort of laughter. Hawkwood heard Jago say quietly and with some awe. “Well, now, this should be interestin’.”

Without doubt, it was the orange coat with its high collar buttoned up to the chin that had drawn the eye; as bright as a sunburst compared to the clothing worn by the majority of men in the tent. The coat wearer’s looks were just as arresting as his attire.

In the booth’s dim-lit interior, his skin had seemed to be infused with an almost ethereal saffron tint. Hawkwood had also been struck by the man’s uncannily symmetrical features, in particular his oval face, shaven head and deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. His demeanour had been odd, too. There had been a curious serenity in his gaze and a stillness in the way he’d held himself. He’d seemed oblivious to the reaction his arrival had caused, though he must have been aware of it.

“It’s a Chink!” a gravelled voice had offered helpfully.

“Well, ’e ain’t from bleedin’ Chelsea!” another wit had shouted.

“Either way,” Jago murmured in Hawkwood’s ear, “he’s a long way from home.”

The tout had looked back at his man, unable to keep the grin off his face. The response had been a dismissive shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, “He’s paid the entrance money, it’s his funeral.”

When Chen climbed into the ring, he’d done so in a hushed silence born out of the crowd’s curiosity and collective assumption that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Another challenger, who hadn’t even had the sense to remove his coat, was about to receive a sharp and painful lesson in the noble science.

“Not sure I want to see this.” Jago had been on the point of turning away. Hawkwood, though, stayed where he was. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to remain, other than the look in the Chinaman’s eyes, which had intrigued him.

At the sound of the bell, the champion had exited his corner with all the confidence of a seasoned fighter; a man prepared to give short shrift to any upstart – young or old – who had delusions of unseating him. The crowd was about to be treated not only to a contest between champion and the challenger but a pugilistic exhibition as well.

It hadn’t turned out that way.

Billy Boyd liked to toy with his opponents by allowing them a few opening punches to bolster their confidence, before returning a sequence of light, irritating taps to let them know they’d probably made the wrong decision. That was usually enough to incite the challenger into firing off a salvo of haymakers that had no hope of landing but which gave the champion legitimate rein to retaliate with increasing force. Boyd was more than happy to let the challenger think he was going to last the three rounds before finally moving in and disabusing him of such a foolish notion.

Faced with the Chinaman, Boyd, for the first time in his career, had found himself flummoxed, not least because his opponent made no attempt to attack or put up a protective guard. Instead, all he did was assume a peculiar stance not unlike some kind of strange, one-legged bird. Then, holding his right hand close to his waist in an inverted fist, he raised his left arm to shoulder height, palm open towards the champion, fingers hooked as if it were some kind of claw. Settled, features immobile, as if he had all the time in the world, he waited.

By the time Boyd realized he’d been duped, it was too late. Even as he stepped forward, drawn by this most unlikely of opponents to initiate contact instead of the other way round, some sixth sense must have triggered a warning. But by then he was already committed. Even as he aimed an exploratory jab towards the challenger’s torso, the Chinaman was moving.

Chen’s counter-attack, a set of lightning moves that enabled him to block the punch with ease, turn the champion’s arm away and drive the edge of his palm into Billy Boyd’s throat, was almost sinuous in execution and so fast the crowd had barely had time to follow it from start to finish.

It occurred to Hawkwood that he might have seen scorpions strike with less speed and ferocity; estimating later that it had probably taken Chen longer to climb over the ropes than it had for him to put the champion on his back.

To a stunned silence that could have been cut with a knife.

It had been hard to tell who was the most shocked: the crowd, the booth owner, or Billy Boyd.

“Jesus!” Jago’s whisper had echoed the reaction of every witness in the tent.

With Boyd still flat on the canvas, Chen had left the ring to claim his purse, only to discover that the tout was not prepared to relinquish the prize in the wake of a bout that had lasted barely ten seconds, even more so when the challenger had not even had the decency to engage in a fair contest. Especially, the tout had added, when he was a “bleedin’ Chinaman” to boot. Emboldened by the belief that he had the bulk of the spectators on his side, he’d told Chen to sling his hook.

But Chen had stood his ground.

By then, factions within the crowd had begun to argue, divided between those who agreed with the tout that the Chinaman had employed unfair tactics, typical of a bloody slant-eyed little heathen, and those who thought that landing Billy Boyd on his arse had been no bad thing and worth the entrance fee on its own.

Things had been on the verge of turning ugly when, with reluctance, Hawkwood had stepped in. Having Jago at his shoulder had helped, but mostly it had been his brass-crowned Runner’s baton and the magistrate’s warrant contained within it that had persuaded the tout that it might be in his best interest if he reconsidered his decision. It was either that, or notice would be issued to close down the booth and both the tout and the champion could spend the night reflecting upon their decision in the nearest police cell. It’d save a lot of bother, Hawkwood promised them, if they paid the Chinaman what they owed him. Then everybody could go home.

Muttering under his breath, the booth owner had handed over the five guineas. In the interest of public order, Hawkwood and Jago had escorted Chen from the tent and, in case any of Boyd’s supporters harboured thoughts of revenge, from the Common as well.

When they’d reached a safe distance, Chen had thanked them in halting English. Then he’d asked Hawkwood why he’d helped him.

There had been two reasons, Hawkwood told him. The first was because Chen had won the bout and the purse was therefore his.

The second was that Hawkwood wanted Chen to teach him to fight.

They had been using the cellar beneath the Rope and Anchor twice a week for three months. The owner, a former lighterman called Tully Robinson, owed Jago a favour. Jago had called in the debt and Tully had bequeathed one of the pub’s cellars, no questions asked. It even had its own entrance, approached via a dank, shoulder-wide passage with the appropriate name of Gin Alley.

The cellar became their training room. Hawkwood had been mystified by some of the additions, the sparring tree in particular. Only when Chen had given him a demonstration, using his hands, forearms and feet to attack the bare wooden figure had it begun to make sense, as had the ridges of hardened skin along the outside edges of Chen’s soles and palms. It was only after their second session together that Hawkwood noticed how compact Chen’s hands were; his fingers were uniformly short and almost of the same length. As a result, his fingertips, when held rigid, were as formidable as an axe blade and just as effective as the edge of his hand.

Chen had begun by teaching Hawkwood simple sequences of blocks and strikes. Hour after hour, he would take Hawkwood through the drills until the mantra became all consuming.

“Too slow. Again.”

Block, strike; block, strike.

“Too slow. Again.”

The techniques that Chen employed were not entirely new to Hawkwood. He’d served with a man during his time in Spain, a Portuguese soldier turned guerrillero, who’d plied his trade in the East and who’d picked up some interesting fighting skills along the way. He’d shared some of them with Hawkwood, telling him they’d originated among an order of Chinese holy men. Forbidden to carry weapons, they had devised their own form of combat using their hands and feet and whatever implements were available.

Hawkwood had remembered some of the elementary moves and indeed had used them on occasion. Watching Chen display the unexpected yet instantly familiar tactics against Billy Boyd had ignited the thought that maybe fate had presented him with an opportunity to widen his knowledge and improve upon those few basic skills he’d acquired from his Portuguese comrade-in-arms. Anything that would give him an edge over the sort of men he hunted had to be an advantage.

As the lessons progressed so did Chen’s command of English. From what Hawkwood had been able to glean, Chen had no family. He came from the south of China; a province with a strange name that was almost impossible to pronounce. More intriguing was Chen’s disclosure that he had indeed been a monk, a member of a religious order that had fallen foul of the authorities. A number of sacred sites had been desecrated, including Chen’s own monastery. The monks had retaliated and a price had been placed on their heads. Many of them had fled the country. Chen had arrived in England on board a British merchant ship, one of hundreds of anonymous seamen recruited abroad as cheap labour by the East India Company. As a result he’d found himself marooned, an orphan in a storm, unable to return home, for fear of imprisonment or death.

He’d managed to find a bed in one of the Lascar-run Shadwell boarding houses, using the last of his pitiful wages. When they ran out he’d resorted to begging; a legacy from his time as a monk, when the only way to obtain food had been to wander the streets with a bowl and cup. But he’d soon learned there was little sympathy shown to foreign beggars – there were enough home-grown ones – and his orange robe, which would have elicited charity in his own country, counted for nothing on the streets of London. Starvation looked a likely prospect, but he’d persevered. He’d known that the best pickings were to be found wherever crowds gathered, so he had followed the fair-goers to Bow Common. There he’d seen the illustrations on the outside of the boxing booth. He had sufficient English to understand what was required in order for him to walk away with enough money to cover three months’ lodgings. He’d watched Boyd through a gap in the back of the tent and even though he’d not used his fighting skills in many months, he knew he would beat him and that it would not take long.

And so it had proved.

In their training they would alternate roles and Hawkwood would take on the role of the aggressor, wielding his tipstaff or the knife in his boot or on occasion one of the tools hanging on the wall; the threshing flail, the hammer, the hand scythe or the axe. Invariably, Chen would disarm him with ease, no matter how quickly Hawkwood attacked or what weapon he favoured. Gradually, however, Hawkwood came to understand the principles Chen employed, how it was possible to defuse an attack using gravity, speed and leverage to unbalance his opponent and effect a counter strike and every now and then he found himself piercing Chen’s formidable defences. But not very often.

Chen transferred his weight to his left foot and thrust the knife towards Hawkwood’s throat. This time, Hawkwood was unarmed. He brought up his right hand, found Chen’s wrist, rotated it and, stepping to the left, brought the heel of his left hand against Chen’s braced elbow. Chen went down and Hawkwood released his grip.

Chen came off the mattress and nodded. “Better. You still slow, but better.”

“Better”, Hawkwood had learned, was the closest Chen ever got to awarding high praise.

They’d been in the cellar for two hours. Hawkwood’s shirt was soaked. Perspiration coated his skin and his arms and legs ached. He felt a perverse pleasure, however, at seeing for the first time the thin line of perspiration that beaded Chen’s temple. It meant he was probably doing something right.

In the lull, his ears picked up the faint sound of a tolling bell, signalling the change of shift at the timber yard over on Narrow Street. Chen’s ears had caught it, too. He straightened, faced Hawkwood and inclined his head. Some might have looked upon it as a bow of deference but Hawkwood knew it was Chen’s way of announcing that training was over for the day.

“We finish now,” Chen said.

Hawkwood hoped the relief wasn’t showing on his face; or the pain, for that matter. It had occurred to him during the sessions in the cellar that over the years he’d suffered enough hurt in the service of king and country and latterly as a police officer, without it seeming necessary to risk further injury to life and limb trying to master some obscure fighting technique. But then, it had also struck him that, had he mastered the techniques before he’d taken up soldiering and policing he might well have avoided some of the injuries in the first place. Life, he thought, as he wiped his face and neck with a drying cloth, probably wasn’t meant to be that complicated.

Though he couldn’t deny the exhilaration he felt every time he staunched one of Chen’s attacks, which more than made up for any discomfort suffered in the acquisition of bruised bones, scraped knuckles and the occasional bloody nose.

His thoughts were jolted by a hesitant knock on the cellar door; an unusual occurrence. Tully, true to his agreement with Jago, had rarely encroached upon his and Chen’s privacy before. Even Chen, a master of stoicism, turned his head at the interruption. He looked at Hawkwood for direction. Hawkwood nodded and reached for his coat. Chen opened the door.

Tully Robinson stood on the threshold. He was a heavily built man, with thinning hair and a hangdog look.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Captain. Told to give you this.” He threw Chen a wary glance and held out a folded note.

Hawkwood took the paper, broke the seal and read the contents.

“Who delivered it?”

“Didn’t catch the name. Small fella; bow legs and spectacles; wore a wig, dressed like a pox doctor’s clerk.”

Hawkwood didn’t react. “How long ago?”

“’Bout ’alf an hour. I knows you likes your privacy, so I waited. Then I got to figuring it might be important after all. You know ’im?”

Hawkwood nodded. “For my sins.”

Tully regarded Hawkwood’s tall frame with some apprehension, taking in the dark hair tied off at the nape of the neck, the scarred features and the blue-grey eyes. Tully had worked on the river most of his life and had known hard men, but this one, even if he hadn’t been a friend of Jago’s, was a man he knew he wouldn’t want to cross. He’d called him “Captain” because that’s how Jago had addressed him, but as to Hawkwood’s profession, he wasn’t prepared to hazard a guess. The small, bespectacled messenger had provided no clue. He’d simply described Hawkwood and asked that the message be passed on.

Tully stared at the Chinaman. He still couldn’t put his finger on what the two of them got up to in the cellar. The walls and door were thick enough to deaden most of the noise from within. All he’d ever heard in passing were dull thumps and grunts and clunks that might have been wood striking metal. He’d never plucked up the nerve to ask either Jago or his friend the captain what they used the room for; indeed, that was part of the arrangement. It hadn’t stopped him wondering, though. And as for the presence of a Chinaman, God alone knew what he was doing there. Tully didn’t like to think. Message delivered, he departed, no wiser than he’d been before he knocked on the door.

Hawkwood considered the note, imagining the look on Twigg’s face had he heard Tully’s description of him. He did not wonder how Ezra Twigg had tracked him down but accepted the fact with weary resignation. Twigg’s resources were both extensive and bordering on the mystical. Speculation would have been a waste of time.

Chen collected a hessian sack from a hook on the wall and slipped it over his shoulder. He did so in silence, his movements controlled and precise. Hawkwood suspected that Chen had very few possessions; a leftover, he assumed, from Chen’s former vocation as a monk, where a vow of poverty would have been a prerequisite. He had a feeling Chen also travelled without baggage for another reason; a man on the run, even so far from home, would not want to be weighed down by unnecessary encumbrances.

They let themselves out of the cellar. At the end of the alley, Chen bowed again and without pausing turned and walked away; a small, slight and innocuous figure among the grime of his surroundings. Hawkwood watched him go. Chen did not look back. He never did. Hawkwood guessed he’d be heading for the East India Company mission on Fore Street, which catered for Lascar and Chinese seafarers who found themselves in extremis. In exchange for a roof and a bed, Chen carried out odd jobs, most of them menial, such as cleaning and preparing meals. In all likelihood, given his history, he probably provided spiritual guidance as well. As foreigners on a foreign shore, the Asian seamen had learned early on that there was safety in numbers. Hawkwood wondered if Chen taught them how to defend themselves, as well. Still wondering, he turned. Leaving Queen Street behind, he strode west, towards Sun Tavern Fields and on to the city. If Tully Robinson’s laconic observation was accurate, he had an appointment with a pox doctor.

And it wouldn’t do to be late.

Arriving at Bow Street, Hawkwood made his way to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs, his ears picked up the harsh scratch of nib on paper. In the ante-room, Ezra Twigg was bent low over his desk, his small mouth pursed in concentration. A tatty grey wig hung on a stand behind him. From a distance it looked like some kind of dead animal. It wasn’t often the wig was discarded. Hawkwood could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen the clerk without it. Hanging alongside the wig was a black tricorne hat that had also seen better days.

“Why, Mr Twigg!” Hawkwood said breezily. “And how are we this fine morning? Enjoy your constitutional?”

Ezra Twigg did not look up, though the pen in his hand may have paused momentarily. “Most efficacious, Officer Hawkwood. Thank you for asking.” Light from the window behind the desk reflected off Twigg’s spectacles. He looked like a diminutive, slightly disgruntled owl awoken upon his nest.

The pen resumed its pedantic scroll across the document. The little man’s flaking scalp showed palely through his receding hair. The hunched shoulders of his coat were liberally sprinkled with flecks of fine grey powder. As well as the wig, the clerk had also forsaken his ink guards. The cuffs of his shirt were edged with dark, uneven stains.

“Should have waited for me, Ezra,” Hawkwood continued cheerfully. “It’s a nice day. We could have strolled back together.”

The clerk muttered under his breath.

Hawkwood cupped an ear. “Sorry, Ezra; didn’t catch that. Did you say something?”

Twigg sniffed. “Only that some of us have work to do.” Again, the clerk did not bother to look up, but added dolefully, “He said you were to go straight in.”

Hawkwood grinned and crossed the room. He took off his riding coat, draped it over a chair back and tapped on the door. Behind him, Twigg gave the coat a pained look and shook his head in resignation.

“Enter.” The order came crisply from within.

Hawkwood pushed the door open.

Chief Magistrate James Read looked up from his desk.

“Ah, there you are.” Read put down his pen. His eyes moved towards the longcase clock that stood like a sentinel in the corner of the dark-panelled room. If he was irritated by the time it had taken Hawkwood to respond to the summons, he chose not to show it, but got up from his desk and made his way to the fireplace where bright flames danced behind a large mesh guard. Standing with his back to the hearth, he raised his coat-tails. Dressed in coordinating shades of grey, he was a slim, fastidious-looking man, with silver hair combed neatly back from a strong, aquiline face.

Hawkwood stepped into the room and closed the door. And immediately found himself perused.

“So, Hawkwood, how are you? I keep meaning to enquire. On the mend after the Morgan affair?”

“Every breath is a victory, sir,” Hawkwood said.

Read accepted Hawkwood’s response with a flinty stare. “Wounds no longer troubling you?”

“I’m well, sir, thank you.” Hawkwood tried to keep the wariness from his voice. The Chief Magistrate wasn’t usually this concerned for his health; at least not to his face.

“Splendid. Plenty of exercise, I trust? My physician tells me that a diet of regular physical activity can be a great aid to recovery, providing one doesn’t indulge in over exertion, of course.”

The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with another penetrating look. If he’d been wearing spectacles like his clerk, he would have been regarding Hawkwood over the rims, as if daring him to contradict.

“An excellent idea, sir. I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m stabbed or shot.”

The corner of Read’s mouth lifted. Lowering his coat-tails, the Chief Magistrate gazed towards the window to where the sounds of the city rose stridently from the street below, as a bewildering variety of vendors and costermongers attempted, without much success, to drown out the incessant cacophony of cart wheels and clattering hooves.

Hawkwood waited expectantly.

James Read turned back. “I’ve a job for you.” The Chief Magistrate paused and then said, “I’m placing you on secondment.”

Not something Hawkwood was expecting. The word carried a distinct sense of foreboding, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Secondment?” He tried to keep his voice calm. “With whom?”

“Superintendent Brooke.”

Hawkwood wondered if the name was supposed to mean something. It didn’t.

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

Read’s eyebrows rose momentarily at the less than reverential tone in Hawkwood’s voice and then he sighed.

“I’d be surprised if you had heard of him, frankly. Superintendent Brooke prefers to keep to the – how shall I put it? – less well-lit side of the street. In fact, I doubt there’s a dozen people who have heard of him. Even within his own department,” Read added cryptically.

Which sounds even more bloody ominous, Hawkwood thought.

Warmed through, Read stepped away from the hearth and walked to the window. “The superintendent’s responsibilities fall within the remit of the Home Office.”