It was a responsible job. Not every day is specie to the tune of half a million British sovereigns shipped from a Liverpool dock; and because gold-boxes are made in a conventional pattern, the shipment was spotted, and crowds gathered to stare at the cased-in wealth.
As staring dumbly is dry work, self-appointed orators amongst the crowd naturally distributed gratis their own private opinions upon the situation; and, according to their luck or eloquence, these attracted larger or smaller audiences. No one took them very seriously, and they for the most part treated the subject in a jocular vein. It was not till Captain Kettle and the Mersey pilot had gone on to the upper bridge, and the mate on the fore-deck had cast off the first bow-fast, that a prophet arose who spoke of the gold shipment in another key.
He was a wild, unkempt, knock-kneed man, who attracted first attention by tying a crimson handkerchief to an umbrella and brandishing it above his head. Being on the face of him a creature who never, if he could avoid it, put his hand to honest labor, he naturally addressed the crowd at large as “Fellow workers.” These things awoke a slight humorous interest; and because the man had the gift of glib and striking speech, the crowd continued to listen after the first pricking up of their ears.
The man’s discourse need not be reported in detail. He was an anarchist, red, rampant, and ruthless; and by means of arguments, some warped, some fair enough, he pointed out to his hearers that the mission of the Port Edes was another knife-thrust of capital into the ribs of labor. The statement met with a very mixed reception, but the anarchist silenced both the jeers and the applause with a beseeching wave of his hand, and followed along the curb of the wharf the steamer, which was commencing to float towards the dock gates. He spoke to those on board her now rather than to his more immediate following, and unclean faces stared at him from over the line of bulwarks.
“To any man of you who values life,” he cried, “I offer a solemn warning. That ship is doomed; she will sink in mid-ocean, blown apart by our petards, and her ill-gotten cargo will be hurled out of capital’s reach forever. Those who are misguided enough to be her guardians will be blown into space. Listen, you men of her crew. Jump on the pier-head yonder as she passes into the basin, and take the consequences. The brutal laws of this country will hurl you into prison; but better a season dragging out a martyr’s sentence, than death as an enemy to the workers’ cause.”
At this point the strong right hand of the law descended on to the speaker’s elbow; and then, because he attempted to resist, the willing right knee of the law jerked up suddenly into the small of that anarchist’s back; after which he was haled ignominiously to a police-station, and the place of his speaking knew him no more.
But the fellow’s threats had not been without their result. Every hand on the Port Edes’ deck had heard them distinctly, and disquiet arose under the belts of nine out of ten. The mates grew nervous and the men inattentive; and, from the bridge, Captain Kettle’s voice and whistle kept ringing out with biting clearness. As it was, only one man attempted to put the warning into practical effect. He was a miserable, half-clad wretch, a coal-trimmer by rating, already repentant of the spell of physical toil which he had signed on for.
Passing through the lock-gates into the basin, the steamer’s port quarter swung gently towards the wall. A sailor, in readiness, dropped from above and ran aft with the lanyard of a cork fender. The trimmer jumped on the bulwarks, and one might have thought that he was going to bear a hand—an unnecessary hand. The sailor did so, and cursed him for his officiousness. The donkeyman, however, who was oiling the after-winch, had other ideas on the subject, and stood by for a rush. So it befell when that trimmer was getting himself ready for a spring back on the quay-head, the donkeyman’s long legs took him rapidly across the red iron decks, and when the trimmer was already in mid-air, the donkeyman’s huge paw descended upon the slack of his black breeches, and drew him back as though he possessed the weight of a feather pillow. Whereat the crowd at the pier-head yelled with delighted laughter, and the dingy steamer made her way stolidly on to the muddy waters of the Mersey ebb, which bubbled against the lip of the walls beyond.
“Curse you!” snarled the trimmer, “what’s that for?”
“Because we’re short-manned in the stokehold already, me son; an’ if there’s a hand goes, it’s meself that’ll have to stand watch and watch in his place. Havin’ got you, I shall be a jintleman now, and slape in my bed at night all the way to New Orleans. See that?”