THE BLACKLEGS OF LADY JOCELYN By Julie Hubbard
The predatory eyes of the Caller-on scanned the sea of desperate faces in front of him, all eager to catch his attention. Only those men bowed by resignation of the inevitable, hovered around the outer fringes. The rest of the pack clamoured tightly around the steel bars of the cage.
Scrutinizing his lot, the Caller-on opened his mouth forming a half smile half sneer, the destiny of these wretched figures resting upon the unpleasant shoulders of this man encased by the steel cage. To him they were a pack of wolves that he would now throw a scrap to and delight in the resulting exhibition of savagery that would invariably follow.
Joe stood with an iron back; a tweed cap pushed to the rear of his squat head, the men around him started jostling for attention. Trying to hold your own was difficult whilst perched upon a wooden orange box. For a second he held his balance but the box gave way tipping Joe into the crowd. Fists pummeling wildly he struggled to his feet but not before he had hit at least three of his mates. None of them took it personally, they all knew the stakes were high and Joe standing at just under five feet had it tougher than most.
The very air around the dock rippled with tension. The pressure boiled over and fighting near the back broke out again. The Caller-on knew it was time and with a dominant voice he now called out the names of the men selected. A small portion of the pack quietly celebrated, the remainder could not contain their anger. The marine police took charge herding the chosen ones in through the gates, and firing warning shots to repel a now murderous mob.
Their energy was soon spent however, most not having eaten for at least twenty four hours. Joe hoisted his flannel trousers up and brushed himself off. It never changed. Always the same faces chosen and the same rejected. Joe being the wrong side of thirty had spent his whole life at this dockyard. As had his father before, but these were desperate times and loyalty counted for nothing. A miserable existence scrapping for the honour to work for no more than an hour a day was a daily ritual.
Some of the men sloped off, heading for Nelly’s at the end of the street. Joe’s best mate Bob shuffled over.
“Are you coming for a tipple, Joe?”
Joe contemplated for a second, the conflicting emotions evident on his pug like features.
“I can’t Bob, I’ve got to get me an hour today, bloody rent man is on me back and Mary is creating a fuss.”
Slightly embarrassed at revealing this last piece of information Joe’s ruddy complexion deepened.
“Tell the lads I’ll be down later, save one for me yeah”
“Suit yourself, Joe but you know it’s bloody hopeless”
Joe knew this only too well but he was stubborn and his pride would not let him give up easily. So shrugging his scraggy shoulders Bob headed off to seek solace with a shot of gin.
Joe remained standing at the gate for two hours. Time dragged on interminably, every minute seemed like an hour. Finally the Caller-on returned to his post and the scene played out much the same as before. Joe had managed to get a good position, once more perched upon his wooden box; he concentrated on as much eye contact with the caller-on as possible.
The tension was palpable as Joe began grinding his teeth, his square jaw working back and forth like a piston. He could barely staunch the bitterness in his gut when the man standing just to his left was chosen instead of him. A volley of insults to all and sundry flew from Joe’s full lips. He thought of Mary and the kids, they had it tough too. There was no other option but to hold out for the third and final call of the day.
Bob and some of Joe’s other comrades had returned from Nelly’s bolstered by the support of the gin. They even managed a joke between them as they approached Joe. Joe’s patience had been stretched gossamer thin today and the laugh provoked a deep rage within him.
He unleashed himself onto them like a bull terrier. The men were slow to react and took the full force of his ferocious punches. They quickly sobered up to retaliate and the six men soon had him pinned down on the ground.
“You crazy bastard! What are you taking it out on us for? We are all in the same shit as you!”
Joe looked up at Bob taking in the hollow sculptural features. Tears threatened to erupt as the futility of it all became too much. Bob was greatly disturbed by his friend’s evident distress and patted Joe’s shoulder in a gesture of compassion.
“You should have come with us, you stubborn bastard it would have done you more good than hanging around here, anyhow there’s been some developments. Maurice says they are rallying the men for a strike; we’ve all taken just as much as we can, and it’s about time the West India Company learnt to respect us!
Maurice’s predictions were correct and the call came a few days later. The pawn shop at the end of Duke Street had a queue snaking right down through its entire length. Consisting of dock workers with various treasured possessions. Joe stood among them with his Sunday suit draped over one arm and Mary’s wedding ring in his hand. All needed emergency money and no-one knew how long they would have to strike for. They all prayed for a quick conclusion, but as the days went on there was no sign of the company breaking.
Joe made a restless striker, driving Mary crazy with his pacing up and down the kitchen. His passion was all consuming and he could get no respite.
Every day conditions worsened, his children grew paler and Mary more hollow eyed through the strain. Devoid of any worthwhile objects left to pawn. They barely shared a civil word let alone tenderness anymore. Joe knew Mary blamed him for their situation. Whenever Bob came round to call, ready to march with his makeshift protest banners, Mary looked on scornfully with her washed out eyes. At least down at the dock Joe had known who he was and what to expect.
The company itself was strangely quiet. It had been nearly three weeks and not a word or announcement had been issued. Then wild rumours began flying around about secret workers being holed up on the ship The Lady Jocelyn inside the dockyard.
Joe glanced nervously through the small porthole up at the heavy steel clouds and back into the small cabin filled with apprehensive faces, surrounded by the guarded expressions of the marine police. He began to pick a scab on the knuckle of his right hand in a vain attempt to distract from the uncomfortable thoughts plaguing his mind. The Caller-on came aboard The Lady Jocelyn, his eyes scarcely able to disguise their contempt.
“Well my blacklegs are you ready for your morning’s work?”
The old Joe would have laid him flat for that comment but not now. A deep sense of shame stifled any remnants of pride. He had gained the precious work he had so desired but at a huge cost. In a daze he shuffled along in a line with the rest of the workforce off the ship and down into the dockyard, with ears smarting from the chants of his comrades on the other side of the gates protesting.
The End
“Are you coming for a tipple, Joe?”
Joe contemplated for a second, the conflicting emotions evident on his pug like features.
“I can’t Bob, I’ve got to get me an hour today, bloody rent man is on me back and Mary is creating a fuss.”
Slightly embarrassed at revealing this last piece of information Joe’s ruddy complexion deepened.
“Tell the lads I’ll be down later, save one for me yeah”
“Suit yourself, Joe but you know it’s bloody hopeless”
Joe knew this only too well but he was stubborn and his pride would not let him give up easily. So shrugging his scraggy shoulders Bob headed off to seek solace with a shot of gin.
Joe remained standing at the gate for two hours. Time dragged on interminably, every minute seemed like an hour. Finally the Caller-on returned to his post and the scene played out much the same as before. Joe had managed to get a good position, once more perched upon his wooden box; he concentrated on as much eye contact with the caller-on as possible.
The tension was palpable as Joe began grinding his teeth, his square jaw working back and forth like a piston. He could barely staunch the bitterness in his gut when the man standing just to his left was chosen instead of him. A volley of insults to all and sundry flew from Joe’s full lips. He thought of Mary and the kids, they had it tough too. There was no other option but to hold out for the third and final call of the day.
Bob and some of Joe’s other comrades had returned from Nelly’s bolstered by the support of the gin. They even managed a joke between them as they approached Joe. Joe’s patience had been stretched gossamer thin today and the laugh provoked a deep rage within him.
He unleashed himself onto them like a bull terrier. The men were slow to react and took the full force of his ferocious punches. They quickly sobered up to retaliate and the six men soon had him pinned down on the ground.
“You crazy bastard! What are you taking it out on us for? We are all in the same shit as you!”
Joe looked up at Bob taking in the hollow sculptural features. Tears threatened to erupt as the futility of it all became too much. Bob was greatly disturbed by his friend’s evident distress and patted Joe’s shoulder in a gesture of compassion.
“You should have come with us, you stubborn bastard it would have done you more good than hanging around here, anyhow there’s been some developments. Maurice says they are rallying the men for a strike; we’ve all taken just as much as we can, and it’s about time the West India Company learnt to respect us!
Maurice’s predictions were correct and the call came a few days later. The pawn shop at the end of Duke Street had a queue snaking right down through its entire length. Consisting of dock workers with various treasured possessions. Joe stood among them with his Sunday suit draped over one arm and Mary’s wedding ring in his hand. All needed emergency money and no-one knew how long they would have to strike for. They all prayed for a quick conclusion, but as the days went on there was no sign of the company breaking.
Joe made a restless striker, driving Mary crazy with his pacing up and down the kitchen. His passion was all consuming and he could get no respite.
Every day conditions worsened, his children grew paler and Mary more hollow eyed through the strain. Devoid of any worthwhile objects left to pawn. They barely shared a civil word let alone tenderness anymore. Joe knew Mary blamed him for their situation. Whenever Bob came round to call, ready to march with his makeshift protest banners, Mary looked on scornfully with her washed out eyes. At least down at the dock Joe had known who he was and what to expect.
The company itself was strangely quiet. It had been nearly three weeks and not a word or announcement had been issued. Then wild rumours began flying around about secret workers being holed up on the ship The Lady Jocelyn inside the dockyard.
Joe glanced nervously through the small porthole up at the heavy steel clouds and back into the small cabin filled with apprehensive faces, surrounded by the guarded expressions of the marine police. He began to pick a scab on the knuckle of his right hand in a vain attempt to distract from the uncomfortable thoughts plaguing his mind. The Caller-on came aboard The Lady Jocelyn, his eyes scarcely able to disguise their contempt.
“Well my blacklegs are you ready for your morning’s work?”
The old Joe would have laid him flat for that comment but not now. A deep sense of shame stifled any remnants of pride. He had gained the precious work he had so desired but at a huge cost. In a daze he shuffled along in a line with the rest of the workforce off the ship and down into the dockyard, with ears smarting from the chants of his comrades on the other side of the gates protesting.
The End
